


See You on the Other Side

by damnitgreenberg



Series: Truth, Danger, and Other Hazards (of Growing Up) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst and Humor, Arson, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse (off screen), Gen, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall - Freeform, Stalking, Suicide Attempt (Past Event), fake!mythology, fake!therapy, feel free to suggest tags, ignores season 3 with a few exceptions, one sided relationship (Stiles/Lydia), peter is a creep, pre-slash Sterek, repercussions of canon event(s), slow build (sterek), unhealthy coping methods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 146,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnitgreenberg/pseuds/damnitgreenberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't doing so well on the ‘dealing with life’ front. He'll admit to that freely, okay? But he quickly discovers he isn't the only one, and that person’s inability to adapt and roll with the punches may cost Stiles his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: We've all lost something, somehow.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: mistaken for couple (Scott/Isaac), language, minor violence, psychological repercussions of canon event (flash backs, memories, sleep deprivation), pining

Five minutes after lunch period started, Stiles found himself in front of his locker by force of habit alone. He blinked sleepily as he automatically opened it to do… what, exactly? Stiles sighed, gingerly resting his forehead on the slightly sharp edge of the locker door. _Come on, Stiles. Think think think._ Oh God. He was blanking.

“Hey, Jackson!” somebody shouted behind Stiles. He was shoved almost face first into his locker, his shoulder catching on the door. Before he could properly make his complaints known, the jerkass (jerkasses?) responsible was already three doors down the traffic jam of a hallway, converging on a very sour looking Jackson. 

It was Brian, Cody, Greenberg, and a few of the other guys from the lacrosse. Jackson was leaning against the wall near a classroom door, shooting his supposed friends a look that said _what the hell_ or _excuse you_ or maybe even _scatter, peasants._ They didn't even notice, crowding around him like a pack of excitable wolf pups.

Stiles made a face, tempted to slam his locker shut and stomp off huffily for the dramatic value alone. The only thing that made him pause was the realization that, in this din, no one would hear him. He’d been to quieter rock concerts than this. 

Well. Been is such a strong word.

But, more importantly, _Jackson_. Stupid Jackson.

Jackson died, Jackson lived, and Jackson died again, only to resurrect himself into the form he always wanted. And despite his past as a nasty lizard assassin, despite his current and new hairier alter-ego, and despite his general achievement scores in pure douchery, Jackson got the girl. Not just a girl, but _the_ girl. Lydia Martin. With her on the scene, there was no way he was getting out of this mess anything less than pristine.

Which was just great. For him. For Stiles, though, everything was just a little harder, but that was expected. Because… because _werewolves_ , okay? Werewolves were the source and origin of all his problems—from near death experiences to bouts of low self-esteem. 

Like now, for instance. Stiles scowled at his shoes, swinging the locker door back and forth lightly. Even though this was his life, he didn't feel like the main character—the protagonist, the important one. Because _werewolves_ , damn it. It felt like Scott catching lycanthropy landed Stiles in his current unenviable position of token best friend/comedic relief. Jackson? Anti-hero. Derek? Anti-hero. Lydia? 

Well, actually, no. He was too afraid to label her. Stiles was not going to rule out sudden telepathy in these post-werewolf revelation times.

But _Stiles_ , see? Stiles was a side kick. And, you know what? Side kicks die. 

Because werewolves. And the people who hunt them. And how shitty was it that Stiles was more scared of hunters than he was of creatures of the night?

Anyway, to be fair, Scott made a good hero type, nerdy origin story and all, but… who did Stiles have to kill around here to get his own hero plot-line, huh? Or villain. He could do villain. A multi-faceted villain, even, with motivations and tear-jerking back stories. He could be a Spike!

Stiles made a face. Okay, maybe not a _Spike_. But, damn it, Stiles was sick of being the goddamn scenery. Or, worse, the MacGuffin. The dude in distress. The hero’s vulnerable underbelly.

Stiles realized he was white-knuckling the door for a moment and so, carefully, he let go, eyeing the temporary indentation across his palm. Okay, so maybe he was a little worked up about this. Stiles really needed to stop reading comic books in class. They were giving him too many feels.

He scowled at his text books for a moment (why oh why was he here again?) and then, giving up, he slammed his locker shut. Then he rested his forehead against the metal, closing his aching, hot eyes. He sighed. 

Forget all that. He’d kill to have just _one_ night’s sleep without seeing Grandpa Crazypants and his raised fist. He’d be a side kick. He’d be a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Hell, he’d be a red shirt, if that’s what it took to get a full eight. He needed sleep. He coveted it, daydreamed about it, wanted to hoard it like a dragon hoards gold.

Stiles whimpered slightly. He was so, so tired. He would sleep here, standing up, if he could. He leaned into his locker harder, willing to give it a try.

But then the distinctive smell of Lydia’s perfume roused him from where he was slumped. Stiles pulled away from it with a wobbly lurch and looked down the hallway, preparing to greet her. She let him do that nowadays and that was just awesome.

But he was too slow. She had already passed him, too caught up in Jackson—in his small smile at her, in his arm around her shoulder, in his undivided attention—to notice Stiles at all. They were both heading to the entrance of the school, eyes for no one but each other. Jackson’s bro-group watched sadly, practically radiating abandonment issues.

Stiles let out a frustrated, garbled yell. Why do people like Jackson? Why?

These were sane and reasonable people, right? _Lydia_ was sane and reasonable people. Why.

Stiles leveled a glare at Jackson’s retreating back. Stupid Jackson. His life was so perfect. Stiles bet he never thought he was the expendable side kick—never had to worry about when he was going to _die_.

But Stiles’ angst was short lived. He was way too tired to sustain anything other than a perpetual grumpiness. So he yawned, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, and sleepily wandered towards the cafeteria. He had homework to do.

He froze in the middle of the hallway. Crap. 

He’d meant to get his laptop.

“Come _on_ ,” he muttered with a foot stomp. He spun on his heel and worked about getting his locker open once more.

This was just not his day.

-

Jackson took one step out of the school and into the sunshine, and then was suddenly fighting off a full on shift.

Why? Oh. He’ll _tell_ you why. 

It was because Isaac Lahey was an _unbelievable_ twit—that’s why.

Like every other loser at school, Lahey had a perpetual hard-on for McCall, which was irritating all on its own. _Unlike_ every other loser, he was a goddamn werewolf. So while the others were meekly glaring at him for breathing too hard in Saint McCall’s presence today, Lahey was making a furry, super powered nuisance of himself—shoulder-checking Jackson, standing too close to Danny, denting Jackson’s locker, and, the final blow: scratching his claws against the Porsche’s new paint job.

“ _Hey!_ ” Jackson bellowed, hovering at the edge of the parking lot. His yell briefly jolted some of the rapidly dispersing crowd. A few paused to see what was about to go down, but the lure of cheap lunch food unsullied by the cafeteria proved to be a far greater draw than a fight. 

Next to Jackson, Lydia huffed out a sigh, shaking out her keys. She looked supremely unimpressed, but approached him anyways. “When you’re done horsing around, Blue Eyes, you can call me.” Lydia rose to her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

The burning ache in Jackson’s gums disappeared and, for a moment, he forgot his anger. For a moment, he let go of the hot, heavy blood-lust coursing through his veins. For a moment, he considered ignoring Lahey and his temper tantrum and going after Lydia—after all, his opportunities to spend time with her would sharply drop after the term ended. Summer was practically on top of them already. He was already dreading her absence.

Then Lahey idly snapped the side view mirror off of his car and tossed it over his shoulder.

Jackson snapped his attention away from Lydia, instantly furious once more. “You’re dead, Lahey,” he snarled, advancing on him across the parking lot.

Lahey cocked his head to the side. “You say that, but I don’t think you know what that means.” His mouth curved into a mean smile. “Puppy.”

Jackson’s vision shifted abruptly to red.

And it-

It stayed that way. For a while.

In fact, the next thing Jackson remembered was Derek Hale backhanding him into a wall. Werewolf or not, that _hurt_ , damn it. 

They were in some sort of underground area and the wall he hit was made out of concrete. He made a goddamn dent, which was awesome, but _fuck_. His shoulder hurt. Jackson pulled himself back to his feet, stretching his aching jaw and shaking out his body. He could feel the hot spreading pain of bruises bloom and abruptly disappear as his healing kicked in.

Healing or no healing, that was un-fucking-called for.

Once he found his feet, Jackson yelled, “ _What the hell was that?_ ”

Derek stood there in front of him, face calm and stance loose. “What do you think?” He sounded genuinely curious—and worse, irritatingly immune to whatever Jackson could dish out. Even the way he was standing showed how very little he considered Jackson a threat. His hands were clasped behind him, leaving his belly staggeringly vulnerable, open to ripping, open to clawing, open to-

The sense-memory of skin separating under his claws hit him suddenly, vividly, forcing him to look at his hands.

From elbow to fingertip, his arms were drenched in blood. A coppery, metallic scent overwhelmed his senses. He sucked in his breath, frightened, wondering _who did I kill, who did I hurt, oh God, is this a nightmare_ -

Then he blinked and looked again. His hands were clean, save for a couple smears of blood on his fingers that smelled like Lahey. Minor injuries at best. 

Jackson looked up quickly, looking for the guy. Leaning against a concrete pillar not far away, there he was—blue eyes slightly wide and face arranged in something like concern. Jackson suddenly remembered catching up with him near the edge of the parking lot and delivering a glancing blow with his claws. He remembered Lahey spinning around, startled, before he _laughed_ and tore off into the surrounding woods like an excitable puppy who just found a playmate.

Lahey wasn't laughing now.

Neither was Derek. “Jackson?” 

Jackson snapped his gaze back to Derek, seeing the same concern in his face too. He realized how hard his heart was pounding, how scared he was, and, worse, how easily his shame could be sensed by the other werewolves in the room.

So he dragged the tatters of himself (of his ego, of his dignity) together and sneered at Derek, picking up the thread of the conversation. “This is not a teachable moment, you unbelievable douche bag. This is me asking you a question and expecting a goddamn answer.”

Derek’s expression went cold. “Your control is shot, Jackson. That was the point of this. _To show you_.”

Jackson snorted. He rolled his eyes and made a dismissive gesture. “ I've been through two full moons, asshole, and I’m just fine.”

“Just fine? Really?” Derek turned, sharing a look with Lahey before looking back at Jackson. “Do you know what today is?”

Jackson thought about it and shrugged. “Thursday?” The term was ending in a little more than a week. Lydia was leaving the day after. Those were the only two significant dates he could think of when put on the spot.

Derek's eyes narrowed. “It’s the night of the new moon. It’s the one night of the month where the moon doesn't affect your behavior. How you act today is how you act when you’re not being forced into a rage.” 

Jackson waited for a moment. When no explanation followed, he shrugged. “So?”

Derek’s expression darkened and he started walking towards Jackson. Jackson straightened up slightly and told himself that he was no longer afraid of Derek—that he was no longer prey. But it was hard to remember that when Derek stared at him like that—like his weird pale eyes were seeing into Jackson, seeing everything he wanted to hide.

Derek stopped about a foot in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. He raised his eyebrows. His voice was very quiet. “If this is how you act on with new moon, how are you going to act with a full one?”

“I… I did fine.”

“When Lydia was around, yeah. But how will you act when she leaves?” Derek ducked his head slightly, never breaking eye contact. “Because she is leaving, isn't she?”

Jackson shifted uncomfortably in place. He would have preferred that Derek didn't know Jackson or Lydia’s movements or plans. Just the thought of it made his hackles rise. At the same time, he couldn't lie about that now. Someone’s big mouth had already preceded him.

“She’s my anchor,” he said instead, unwilling to confirm or deny.

“Your anchor is a stepping stone towards calm, not a _leash_. Lydia isn’t going to be around forever. You have to learn how to control yourself, your instincts.” Derek pulled back a bit, expression loosening a bit. “I will teach you that.”

Jackson hesitated, a little thrown by the offer. When Derek just stared at him, face blank, Jackson shrugged. “Okay. Sounds fine.”

Derek looked a little surprised. He hid it badly. “Good.” A strange look passed over his face. It took a moment for Jackson to recognize it.

Oh God. Jackson rolled his eyes. He’d actually pleased Derek with his agreement. What a needy alpha. _Kill me now_.

In the background, Lahey was cautiously approaching them, a tentative smile on his face. Jackson ignored him. Weirdo.

“But I can only do it at night,” he said quickly, not wanting Derek to get too excited. It was strange how less frightening Derek seemed when everyone agreed he was the big bad alpha. Sighing dramatically, Jackson handed over his phone so Derek could put his number in it. 

Derek was just civilized enough to understand the gesture without any further explanations. “Why?” he asked as he entered his information.

“I have practice over the summer. Duh.”

Derek paused. He eyed him considering, handing over the phone. “How many teams are you on?”

Confused by the sudden tangent, Jackson shrugged. “Four?” He sent off a text to Derek’s phone before pocketing his own.

Derek’s frown deepened. He was looking at the floor now. “How many of them are contact sports?” He ignored the text. Jackson tried not to read too much into that—the guy probably didn't have a lot of friends or callers. 

“Just one. Lacrosse.” Jackson shook his head. “Look, why do you care?”

Derek‘s eyes flicked up from the ground. “You need to quit lacrosse.”

There was a long pause where Jackson just gaped at him. Derek’s expression never wavered.

Remembering himself, Jackson laughed in his face. “Excuse you? Where do you get off?”

Derek lifted his chin slightly. “I’m your alpha.”

“Oh, and I’m real impressed by that, aren't I?”

The second that came out of his mouth, he knew that he’d crossed a line. In the background, Lahey winced and suddenly started backing up. Of all the things today, that freaked out Jackson the most. Scared again, Jackson jerked his attention back to Derek and then wished he hadn't. 

Derek’s expression was dark and angry. “Do you want to graduate with even more blood on your hands, Jackson? When I tell you to do something, there are reasons for it. _Good ones_.” Derek sneered, baring his teeth. “Unless you don’t _care_ if you turn around mid-game and _eviscerate one of your team mates._ ”

Jackson was staggered by that accusation—the venom in it, the implications. He blinked rapidly, taking half a step back. In ten years, maybe he’d appreciate the cut of that barb. It was beautifully executed, the lowest of blows—and, worst of all, Derek didn't even know the half of it. Derek didn't know that Jackson stayed up late at night, the principal’s last orders during the game that night still ringing in his head.

_Go for the one in the goal, the nice one, the one everyone likes. Kill Danny, Jackson. KilldannykilldannyKILL-_

Jackson looked away, blinking rapidly. “God.” The small unwilling word was more hoarse than he would have liked.

When he could, Jackson forced himself to make eye contact with Derek again. He didn't want to know what he looked like just then, but, however it was, it made Derek’s expression loosen in tight, reluctant degrees. Finally, Derek shot him a pained look, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” Derek said heavily, finally, and with awkward patience. The way he looked, Jackson could almost believe that too. “But back when the Hale pack was strong, out-of-control betas weren't even allowed to go to school, let alone join sports teams.” 

“This is you going easy on me?” Jackson could hear the strain in his own voice and he hated it.

“I understand you’re not a born wolf. So, yes. I _am_ going easy on you.” Derek reached out and clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson didn't know if he should throw it off or melt into it. “And while I’m going easy on you, I will try to earn your respect your way, the human way.” Derek looked at Jackson for a moment, earnest in this. Then his expression suddenly tightened and, with it, his hand. Jackson felt just the barest hint of claw. “But if you disobey me on this, I will teach you respect my way. And, trust me.” Derek held his gaze searchingly for a moment before shaking his head. “You won’t like it.”

Jackson blanched. He quickly looked away.

Thing is? The thing is, this was the guy who didn't hesitate to shove him face first into a locker, didn't hesitate to claw him up, didn't hesitate to poison him with a paralytic, and sure as hell didn't hesitate to gut him. 

So. Yeah. Jackson sort of believed him. So he nodded, submitting even as his jaw worked and his teeth grinded together. He was going to quit lacrosse. No wiggle room, no ands, ifs, or buts. It was done.

But what the hell was his parents gonna think? His friends?

Lydia?

-

Lunch period was almost over and Scott had seen neither hide nor hair of Allison. He hadn’t even eaten yet. Instead of heading to the cafeteria, where he was supposed to be, he was wandering around the school halls, looking into classrooms forlornly. 

Scott didn't know if it was an anchor thing or a werewolf thing or a guy-in-love thing, but he just needed to see her. He thought that if he just saw her once—just once, across the room, fifty people between them—he’d be okay. The anxiety pulsing under his skin would die down and he could sit down and focus. 

And maybe even study. Whether or not he passed his classes hinged pretty terribly on whether or not he could do well on these last few tests coming up, and even Stiles, his biggest cheerleader, made a bleak face when Scott optimistically predicted no summer school.

That being said, Scott wasn't really worried about the tests. He should have been. Probably. He was just way more worried about Allison right now.

After all, there was an incriminating For-Sale sign on her lawn that they never talked about, and, unless the Argents were moving to a different house in town, that was going to be bad. That was going to be very bad.

Scott let out a shaky breath, rocking back on his heels for a moment before decisively turning around and heading back up the hallway. Meanwhile, his mind churned with thoughts of Allison leaving. He had at least to the end of the term, right? They might not even move for months. Hell, they might not even move at all. The market was bad, right? Who even bought houses these days, right?

Scott rubbed both hands through his hair irritably. Then he took a deep breath and strained his hearing, trying to pick up on her heartbeat. Normally, it was so easy, but now, it was like trying to capture fog with his bare hands.

While straining to hear her, he froze, attention caught by something else—a different sense, a different person.

Werewolf senses weren't on all the time, which was a headache saver. He could pretty much turn them on and off whenever he wanted to, and, honestly? He usually had them off. Except, sometimes, they’d switch on all on their own, even now. Something would tug at Scott’s attention and suddenly one or more of his senses would heighten and follow it. In those cases, Scott was usually dragged along for the ride, trapped by his own instincts. Even so, he couldn't _hate_ it. It was how he first heard Allison, after all.

Most of the time, however, it wasn't pleasant. Like now, for instance. He could suddenly smell, overwhelmingly, _Isaac_ mixed with _blood_ , and then, without much conscious thought, he was moving on autopilot, entering one of the boy’s bathrooms without preamble or pause. 

Startled, Isaac looked up at him. He had been baring his side to the cloudy bathroom mirror. Four claw marks were there, thin and scabbed over, looking like they were already hours old. But the blood on Isaac’s shirt was fresh and still wet. Werewolf healing was kind of amazing.

But still.

Scott pulled away from the door, letting out a sigh that was part unvoiced complaint, part concern. He reached out and touched the bare skin over Isaac’s ribs, immediately leeching away some of the pain.

Isaac relaxed, huffing out a small laugh. Scott wasn’t pushed away or anything, so he assumed that his help was appreciated. Who knew what other kind of damage there was? All he could see right now was scratches, but there were probably bruises too, and bruises were the _worst_ —and, by far, the slowest to heal. A broken bone could heal in seconds. A bruise could last whole minutes—the lighter it was, the longer it would last.

Isaac ducked his head slightly, catching Scott’s gaze. His smile was a strange, self-conscious thing. Isaac took a deep breath. Scott could feel his ribs move under his hand. “Barely even hurts.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, _now_ ,” he said dryly.

And then, just like that, Scott’s sense of smell kicked in again. On Isaac, there was sweat and dirt, blood and concrete, fear and _Jackson_ …

Scott took in a deep, shuddery breath and tried not to read too much into that. Post-lizard monster, Jackson was mellower, even okay at some points. Of course, he’d yelled at Scott earlier that day for using too much shampoo, but Scott had let that slide, realizing that Jackson’s senses were probably spiking randomly throughout the day—not his fault. Not really Jackson’s fault either.

Scott frowned. He really didn't want to start thinking of Jackson as an enemy again, not when everything had settled down again. Scott shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that Isaac was watching him—trying to read him, maybe. He started to pull away, lifting his hand off of Isaac’s skin. 

Isaac caught his wrist before he could get too far. He looked very serious. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but… do me a favor and stay away from Jackson for the next month. As much as possible, anyway.”

Scott stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but why?”

Isaac let go of Scott‘s wrist to rub a hand through his own hair. “He hasn’t internalized his anchor.” He swallowed, his throat clicking. “And Lydia’s leaving.”

Oh. Well. That was bad. That was actually horrible, now that he thought about it. If it wasn’t for Allison, Scott would have killed a whole bunch of people in those early days of wolfy-ness, starting with Stiles.

Oh. Crap. _Stiles._

Scott looked at Isaac with alarm. “I’m late!” he exclaimed, half-whining.

Looking confused, Isaac just shooed him out with a hand. Scott hurriedly took three steps out of the bathroom before something obvious hit him. He raced back in, wrestling off his own jacket before settling it over Isaac’s shoulders. Half way out the door, he sped through an explanation, gesturing wildly at his own side. “The tears in your clothes. They’re super noticeable, dude.”

Then the door was swinging shut and Scott was out again, looking at his watch. Seven minutes left, _crap_.

He ran the rest of the way, feeling super guilty about making Stiles wait for so long. They were supposed to be studying together for Harris’ final from hell and, argh… he’d let himself get so distracted! Damn it. 

Scott burst through the cafeteria doors. Realizing how much attention he’d gathered, he straightened up awkwardly and walked semi-sedately to where Stiles had spread out over a far table.

Stiles didn't look up. His head was bent over several things at once. Like some multi-tasking badass, he was typing into his laptop with one hand and flipping through their history text with another. Between the book and the computer was his math homework, which he switched to momentarily when he failed to find what he was looking for in the text.

The chemistry text was the only book on the table that remained shut. It sat there, accusingly, making Scott feel even worse.

Stiles was scribbling away an answer when Scott, already cringing, eased into the seat across from him. He kindly waited until Scott had pulled out his lunch before saying, “What’s this I hear about you exchanging jackets with Isaac Lahey?”

Scott paused in emptying out his lunch sack. He sat it down with a thud, staring at Stiles. “How do you already know?”

Stiles grinned briefly at his homework. “That’s the power of texting technology, bro. So, tell me. Are you going steady? Have you exchanged promise rings? Are you Facebook official?” Stiles finally looked up, feigning offense while he stabbed a pencil in Scott‘s direction. “And, final question on today’s pop quiz, how dare you.”

That wasn't really a question, but Scott was too wary to point that out. And guilty too. He ducked his head. “Stiles, I-”

“Do your promises mean _nothing_?”

“Well-” Scott tried to say, but was ignored.

“We made an oath,” Stiles hissed with the dramatic undertone reserved mostly for online video games and fantasy movies.

Suddenly, Scott had a feeling Stiles wasn't talking about his tardiness. His mood shifted. “We’ve made many oaths,” Scott said with the same hushed reverence.

“But only one is relevant!” Stiles deflated slightly, chewing on his lower lip. He made a dismissive gesture with his pencil. “Okay, I lie. Maybe like three. And a half.” Scott shrugged, not understanding. Stiles scowled at him. “The bicurious oath, okay! We promised that, if either of us were feeling a little, you know-“

Unfortunately, this was starting to ring a bell. An embarrassing bell. A bell that reeked of 3am confessions of an awkward thirteen year old Scott who thought he was going to die alone. Scott felt himself blushing and half-covered his face with a hand. “Bicurious?” he prompted, nevertheless.

“Yeah. We’d tell each other.” Stiles made an almost violent gesture between the two of them that was more spazz than intent. “And we’d stick with each other, you know? Keep in the family. Stay on familiar grounds.” Stiles looked left and right, gauging the number of people in the room before hissing, “We would not venture out on untamed werewolf-infested pastures, okay?”

Scott frowned slightly. “Pretty sure that wasn't part of the oath.” He took a bite of his apple, considering it. Then, suddenly, he put two and two together—exchanging jackets, going steady, Facebook official. “ _Oh my god._ He was hurt. I just wanted- wow. No. Not having this conversation with you.”

Stiles’ severe expression broke and he laughed. And laughed. And _laughed_. Then finally, with a wheeze and tears in his eyes, he said, “Relax. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

Scott tried to scowl, but failed. It was a lost cause. Stiles’ amusement was infectious—it always had been. Even when the laughter was directed at him.

A thought occurred to him. “Think the rumor has gotten around to Allison yet?”

Stiles smiled again, but there was something strained in it this time. “ You've gotten better. That was a whole minute and a half of conversation without mentioning Allison. Congratulations.”

Scott scowled at him for real this time. “I swear, I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“And I swear, I can’t tell if you’re being adorably obsessive or just plain creepy.”

Scott stared at him in horror. “I’m not creepy!” he said, a whole octave higher than usual. 

Stiles pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at Scott. “Creepiness is in the eye of the beholder and, dude, I’m beholding and you? Dude. You’re creepy.” Stiles settled back in his seat, tilting his chin briefly in the direction of Scott‘s wrist. “You haven’t even given her back her damn hair tie yet.”

Scott looked down at the offending article—a thin stretch of rubber wrapped in fabric. All lingering amusement and frustration disappeared in this swooping feeling of… loss. Abandonment. Sadness. The last time he felt this bad was when his dad left.

Scott curled his finger under the band, tugging it lightly. It was stupid how emotional he was being over it, but hey. That’s just a part of being human. Ish. Human-ish. 

Anyway, Allison had given it to him months ago, during the Jackson mess. She’d escaped her family’s scrutiny for an hour to be with him. Unfortunately, she did it just so she could share some promising books with him, hoping they could find out more about the kanima. They scanned and copied what they could in the public library, tense and worried that an Argent could come around the corner at any moment. 

It was not the most ideal date.

Ten minutes before she had to head back home and spirit the books back into their proper places, Allison stretched with a pained whimper, rolling her neck. Then she pulled her hair free of its bun, shaking out her hair and letting it fall around her shoulders.

Scott reached over unthinkingly, brushing his fingers over the top of her hand. Leeching the pain from her was more instinct than intent at that point. Mind catching up with his body, he jerked his head up, ready to explain—hastily if need be—what was going on. He hadn't shared that little werewolf tidbit with anyone yet and he wasn't sure how much the hunters knew—how much the hunters should be allowed to know.

But his worry was unnecessary. Allison hadn't even seen his veins because she was staring right at his face. He’d only just noticed. When they made eye contact, her small smile stretched into the impish, dimpled grin she always had before she did something flirty. 

She cradled his hand between both of hers and transferred the hair tie from her wrist to his. “Hold this for me?” Allison pressed a kiss to his hand then tangled her fingers with his—which was all they dared to do in public those days. 

Scott was in awe of her always, and that time was no exception. She was so worried and tired all the time, and yet she was still somehow so sweet. Scott could only smile back, not trusting his words. They parted soon after that and he remembered feeling sky high, despite all of the dangers around him—all over a silly hair thing.

But that was the last time he remembered things being okay between the two of them. All the more reason to cling to it, right?

Pulling himself out of the memories, Scott flicked the tie against his wrist once. The sting barely registered. “I don’t want to crowd her,” he said finally, quietly.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, because a two second conversation consisting solely of ‘here’ and ‘bye’, that’s terribly stifling.”

“I wouldn't want to stop there.” Scott sucked in a breath before he blurted out, “She’s _leaving_ , Stiles.”

Stiles raised his hands, placating. “Hey, I know how you feel-"

“No, you don’t. Lydia’s going to Venice for a month and coming back, and _you’re not her boyfriend._ ” Scott couldn't- he couldn't breathe. Barely noticing Stiles’ widening eyes, he gasped out in a rush, “Allison is leaving, maybe forever to who knows where! And her Facebook is gone and her Twitter and her email accounts and her Instagram, and it’s like she’s literally disappearing off of the face of the earth and I just can’t-"

Stiles shot up out of his seat and hurried around the other side of the table. He dropped down next to Scott hard and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Wow, you need to stop. You’re whining,” Stiles hissed, palm forcing Scott’s head down. “Like, literally wolf whining, stop.” Scott breathed hard for a moment, forcing down the shift while Stiles looked around the room suspiciously, fingers curled in Scott’s hair. 

Calming, Scott focused on the quick, rabbit-like beating of Stiles’ heartbeat while his senses briefly flared. There was a sour-sweet smell around Stiles that Derek once told him was adrenaline—just one ingredient of fear. 

He also smelled like sickness—not like cancer or the flu or death, but rather a long draining thing. Scott looked up, eyeing his friend carefully. 

Scott didn't actually need to smell that to know Stiles was kind of _off_ lately. The exhaustion and stress was written all over his face, emphasized by that horribly concerned look that was becoming all too familiar.

Scott frowned at him. Last time he’d asked Stiles what was wrong, he almost got his head ripped off. That didn't stop him from worrying. From watching. From waiting.

Stiles smiled reassuringly, misreading the look on Scott‘s face. “I know you and Allison have this thing where you promised to give each other space, but, if she’s leaving, dude? You should at least say good-bye.”

Scott paused, torn between two concerns. Knowing he couldn't do anything about Stiles, he said awkwardly, “I’m allowed to say good-bye?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Come on. This is Allison. She’s probably waiting for you.” Scott nodded. Of course. He was right. He stood up, feeling settled for having a plan. 

Strangely, this alarmed Stiles, who grabbed Scott‘s shirt. “Whoa, where are you going? Dude, you have a test next period. _In fifteen minutes._ ”

Scott looked at him, then at the cafeteria door. Then he looked back at Stiles again. “I have to sit through that?”

Stiles glowered at him. “You have to not only sit, but also do extremely well.” The warning bell rang, proving that, as usual, Stiles’ internal clock sucked. Stiles stood, groaning, “I should have saved the pep talk for after school.”

Scott helped him pack up his stuff. “I could pass history without this test,” he said optimistically.

Stiles shot him the stink eye. “No, you really, really could not.”

Once Stiles’ stuff was shoved back in his locker, he frog-marched Scott to the right room, alternating between encouraging words and mildly worded threats before bouncing off to whatever class he had in that time slot. Scott honestly couldn't remember, which didn't bode well for the test in front of him. Memorization was eighty percent of school work—or so Stiles claimed.

But, hey, you know what? The test wasn't that bad. Despite his worries, the content was more familiar than not, which was good? Whatever. He sped through the test impatiently, just barely finishing before the end of school bell rang.

Scott skipped going back to his locker, so he was the first person in the parking lot. He looked around the sea of cars, dropping down the steps quickly before hurriedly walking to where Allison usually parked. He wanted to make sure he didn't miss her.

He only paused for half a second, spinning around for a moment to squint at Jackson’s car in an unconscious double take (was he missing a _mirror_?) before shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand. 

But he couldn't see her car. By the time he realized that, hey, maybe she’d gotten out early, the parking lot was swarming with impatient students and faculty. He almost got hit twice before he made it to his bike and rode off, winding his way around slow moving cars and cringing slightly at the inevitable honks.

It was a short trip to Allison’s neighborhood, nothing to write home about. But when he reached her street, he ended up squeezing the brakes so hard, he almost flew over the handlebars. Only werewolf strength and reflexes kept him in his seat.

But that was secondary, unimportant in comparison to the house in front of him, to the conclusion his gut had screamed out hours earlier—the one that he was just finally coming to terms with.

The evidence was there, irrefutable in the afternoon light. The For-Sale sign was gone. There was no cars in the driveway, no lights in the house, no movement, no drapes, no-

No words. No rhythmic breathing. No heart beats. 

The Argents—they were already gone.

Scott sucked in a low, shaky breath. Derek was right about one thing. Scott really had to learn how to trust his senses. They very rarely steered him wrong. Even so, Scott sat there for a very long time, senses straining for anything promising—anything at all.

Then, slowly, defeated, he turned his bike around and started pedaling away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parenting is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: language (as usual), lingering trauma from season 2 manifests in flashbacks, nightmares, and sleep deprivation, angst

When Stiles finally headed back home, it was late—later than usual, considering he didn’t have practice. He’d hung around in his psych class after school with a few of his classmates. Together, they messed around with Rorschach blots and guessed at what the images were and what they meant.

To Stiles, every blot looked like a butterfly—sometimes a really messed up, mutated, post-apocalyptic butterfly, but a butterfly all the same. What did that mean? Depression? Boredom? A distinct lack of creativity? An inability to relate to his fellow humans? Hm. Food for thought.

Anyway, the real reason Stiles was late was because of Finstock. Stiles hadn’t walked three feet out the classroom door before he was called out to, distracted by, and efficiently corralled by his occasionally manic coach. 

They had a talk. Well, no. Talking implied reciprocity, two or more players. What actually happened was more along the lines of a disorganized lecture or a well intentioned rant. Basically, Finstock told Stiles that his position on the first line was _still_ probationary, and that a real quick way to get himself kicked off of the first line entirely would be to miss a single summer practice.

Finstock briefly rubbed his forehead, seeming as if, as always, he’d already hashed out half of this conversation in his head. “And I know I seem like I’m being a hard ass. Believe it or not, I see what you little shits write on the bathroom walls, but I’m doing this for _you_ , okay? You’re alright, kid, but you have no _focus_. No drive.” He gestured vaguely at the wall. “No lady to please in the bleachers. So I’m going to be your lady, the fire under your wings, okay? Or your guy, whatever. Not judging here.” With a flourish, Finstock made a swooping, upward gesture, and then clapped his hands hard on his hips. He leaned forward and pinned Stiles with a hard stare. “Understand what I’m saying, Stilinski?”

“Sure thing, Coach,” Stiles said automatically.

Finstock beamed at him. “That’s what I like to hear!” There was an awkward pause. Finstock made a dismissive gesture. “Well, don’t just stand there. Leave.” Stiles flailed slightly at that and jerked away from him, awkwardly stumbling down the hallway. Finstock watched him go with a frown. 

“And Stilinski! McCall better ace the econ test tomorrow.”

The school doors swung shut behind Stiles, just in time to hide Stiles’ flinch. Ugh. Scott in a post-Allison haze was going to be useless, he just knew it. 

Speaking of which, he should check up on that, really. But Stiles had only so much mental energy to spend, and he was done. One hundred percent d-o-n-e, _done_.

So, instead of chasing after Scott, Stiles went home. He was parking the Jeep outside of his house ten minutes later. 

He paused for a moment, sitting in his car in the driveway and watching with his rearview mirror as Jessie Morrison, age eleven, stubbornly tried to walk his red Siberian Husky. She rewarded his persistence by dragging him across the street to say hi to the Chenfeld’s poodle. Stiles snorted at the sight. 

The dog didn’t even _pretend_ to be domesticated. She was the pest of the neighborhood. At one point, he’d actually gotten used to coming home from school and finding the thing in his kitchen, chest deep in their trashcan. To this day, he still didn’t know how she got in. It wasn’t like they had a dog door. 

Stiles yawned hugely and got out of the car. He went about his daily chores. He was on auto-pilot more than not—turning up the heat, checking the answer machine, turning on the news, that sort of thing. He changed a load of laundry before he remembered that he’d forgotten to get the newspaper that morning. He promptly turned around and headed for the front of the house, hoping that Crazy Lady McCretcher didn’t steal it again. 

Seeing something outside of the window, Stiles paused, hovering mid-step. He abandoned reaching for the door and, instead, crouched low and out of sight, just below the window. 

He checked his watch. Was it really Suspiciously Hot Mailman time? He was later than he thought.

Suspiciously Hot Mailman was a thing now—he’d noticed the guy a few weeks ago. He was all around suspicious. He didn’t have one of those trucks, Stiles noticed disapprovingly, nor the uniform, but he had a tendency of fiddling around with the Stilinski mailbox. That made him a mailman, right? 

What else could he be? Messing with someone’s mail was a federal offense—and the mail he was messing with belonged to the _sheriff_. And there was no way he didn’t know the sheriff lived here. His dad put a freaking sicker on the mail box. _A sticker._ You’d have to be a real idiot to mess with the mail of a sheriff.

Stiles watched him for a little while longer, scrutinizing the man carefully—for purely practical reasons, mind you.

He had a face made for a police lineup, that was for sure. His features were harsh in certain lights, but he was still strangely captivating—like he was a high powered magnet that you couldn’t help but look at. And your eyes were also magnets or maybe just metal. Or something.

Wow. He was officially too tired for this metaphor.

The guy looked down the street, brushing a hand through his pale hair. Stiles’ eyes narrowed at the gesture. “You’re _way_ too hot to be a mailman,” he said decisively, because, let’s face it, he was. 

The guy might have looked dangerous, but he was still a looker. He had kicking cheekbones and dark sunglasses and looked well built under his loose black jacket. Even if he wasn’t so strangely magnetic, he still would have drawn more than his fair share of admirers. Um. That… jerk.

Stiles would feel super pissed about this later—he’s sure about that.

Suddenly, the guy looked up at the house, pale eyebrows drawing together into a truly magnificent frown. Panicking, Stiles threw himself flat on the ground, ducking his head under his arms for good measure.

Wait. Just wait a damn minute. He wasn’t doing anything wrong here. If there was anyone who was-

When he dared to look up again, the guy was gone. 

-

Melissa closed the front door behind her and then leaned against it with a groan. Her legs were sore from standing up all day and working through a double shift. Fortunately, they didn’t want her back for another forty-eight hours. 

She sighed happily and clapped her hands together, a little giddy now, what with her low blood sugar levels and, yes, her fatigue. 

What should she do first? Sleep, bath, food—all these things were at the top of her list. She amended that plan, rearranging it by greatest to least priorities after she opened the kitchen shelves only to be greeted with half a cracker snack and a can of dubiously old tuna. 

That was not good. 

Melissa stared at the vast emptiness in front of her for a little longer, willing for a seven course meal (and a chef to cook it) to appear there magically. Go big or go home, right? 

When nothing happened, she closed the shelves around her head, murmuring, “hello, hello, hello,” pretending her shelves echoed. 

“Aw,” she said after a moment, feeling more nostalgic than she meant to. There was a day where such a thing would elicit a shriek of laughter from her mop headed son. Now, she was lucky if she got an embarrassed eye roll. Teenagers were no fun.

Oh Scott. She sighed. She remembered when he’d used to toddle around the house with a cooking pot on his head until his inevitable collision with the wall. God, those were the days. 

Melissa frowned after a moment. Actually, now that she thought about it, wasn’t that last year? Hm.

The front door creaked open. Speak of the devil. Abandoning her tuna and cracker friends to their trash can-y fate, Melissa left the kitchen, calling out warily, “Scott?” She rounded the corner.

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway. Uh oh. 

It was her son, but it was also not her son—not the open, happier kid she preferred, anyway. He stood in front of the doorway, eyes fixed to the ground as he closed the door behind him, locking out of habit. His shirt was hanging off one shoulder, jacket missing. He dropped his bag in the middle of the floor—then picked it up, reconsidering. He held a strap awkwardly, not really seeming to know what he was doing.

It was five in the afternoon, and she knew he didn’t have lacrosse practice. Why was he so late?

She had a feeling that wasn’t a question she wanted to open with.

“Honey?” Melissa greeted cautiously, edging towards him. He looked up at her. 

She wasn’t quite prepared for the sight of his miserable face, but, hey. That was what parenting was about—rolling with the good days and dealing with the bad. And she was good at parenting, no matter what Scott’s father said. She was so good that it only took her three seconds to figure out what was wrong. 

Granted, it wasn’t terribly hard to figure her son out. 

“It’s Allison, isn’t it?” Melissa leaned against the wall. “They left.” 

Scott pressed his mouth in a thin line, but nodded. 

In a flurry of panicked agitation, he’d told her about the For Sale sign a month ago. They had both sat down and had a mature conversation about it—about how people needed to leave sometimes, about how a move would probably help Allison in the long run. Scott was for anything that put color and expression back in her face, but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the “distance” bit. He wanted her to be happy, but he also wanted her to be around. But it wasn’t really about what he wanted, was it?

Scott reached up and rubbed his cheek with the heel of his palm, still silent and radiating hurt and abandonment. Melissa thought, for a tense moment, that he might start crying, but his eyes were dry, settled on some middle distance between them. He’d never been so far away from her before, even when secrets loomed between them.

Melissa didn’t know what to say. She hesitated too long and spoke too quickly. “Do you… do you want something? I could-” She was making vague gestures at the world at large.

Scott looked at her finally, surprised. “No, just-” He managed a painful smile. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

There was really nothing she could say to that. 

Scott gave her a one-armed hug and then trudged off to his room. She watched him go with a helpless little flutter of her hands, but, in the end, she said nothing else. 

Once she heard his door close, she let out a low, shaky breath. Hopefully, he’d distract himself with World of Mine Craft or Code of Duty or whatever games kids played these days. She didn’t even care if it was bloody and violent—whatever it took to get his mind off of Allison. She clearly wasn’t the one for the job.

Feeling distinctly dismissed, she wandered back to the kitchen, all the giddy satisfaction of a day off escaping her. It was like her entire world had shifted two feet to the left and she couldn’t fix it. And she wanted to, oh so very desperately. 

She wanted to fix _something_.

Melissa poked sadly at the list on the fridge. It was full of sensible things like carrots and bread, milk and cheese. Her budget, Scott’s stomach, and the ridiculous mortgage on the house meant that, when shopping, she tended to favor quantity over quality.

She drummed her fingers rhythmically against the counter, thinking. An idea started coming to life in her head. After a moment of considering it, she put the list back on the fridge with a tiny nod. Not today. This called for comfort food. She could pinch pennies later.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the grocery store baking aisle, trying to figure out the difference between Triple Chocolate and Chocolate Fudge Supreme. They both sounded cavity inducing. She wondered how lycanthropy worked on gingivitis. 

“Someone’s birthday?”

Melissa jumped, startled. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice the sheriff until he was practically right on top of her, which, heh. Hehehe. She mentally smacked herself. _No, bad Melissa._ She wasn’t allowed to objectify a guy whose name she kept forgetting. 

Though, in her defense? She didn’t know a single person who called him something other than Sheriff, Stilinski, or sir. He seemed to demand that sort of formality—but mostly accidentally, like now. 

He’d clearly just gotten off of work, like she did, but where her scrubs barely got her a second glance, other shoppers were actively avoiding him like the plague. The adults, anyway. The children stared at him with a mixed sort of awe and amusement—likely distracted by the sheen of his badge. And it was very shiny.

Following her gaze, Stilinski looked down. Strangely, he flushed. She wanted to poke at him, see how far the red went, if he responded well to teasing and affectionate insults. And there was such a thing, damn it. If she didn’t call someone a dumbass at least once? Then she didn’t like them. Simple as that.

“Not exactly shopping attire, huh?” He looked back up at her and smirked. “Why’d you jump anyway? Weren’t planning on shoplifting, were you?” His eyes were warm, though, betraying the joke—not that it was much of one, yikes.

Stilinski was so flirting. Oh God, she wished she had a video recorder. He had no game _at all_. How did he ever date? And he did date. Everyone knew that. He’d had to file a restraining order against three, which was hil- _ari_ -ous. She worked with one of them.

Anyway, a little part of her—the asshole part of her—wanted to reply ‘not today’, but that was mostly drowned out by the rest of her, which was obsessing over the fact that she had jumped at all—and, of course, that he had noticed. Was she really that on edge?

Her amusement abruptly flat-lined while her self-consciousness rocketed ever upwards. She didn’t know what she was expecting—but again, yeah. She kind of did. Werewolves? Hunters? Lizard monsters? Vampires? Witches? Ghosts? Were aliens now a thing? Ugh.

Melissa shook herself out of those thoughts. She considered him for a moment, then said, “Are you aware of the epic Scott and Allison romance?” She was holding two cake mix boxes, but she spread her fingers out anyway, trying to express the whirlwind romance of young people with a four fingered set of jazz hands. After all, overly dramatic teenage romance was a better thing to think about than the multiple new and varied ways she could be eviscerated in the local baking aisle.

When he nodded, she said, “She left and Scott isn’t happy. As you can imagine.” Melissa displayed the boxes awkwardly. “So I was thinking of making him a Sorry Your Girlfriend Left cake…” She paused, looking at the back of one carefully. “But now that I’ve said that out loud, I’m thinking that is a terrible, terrible idea and that I’m the worst mother ever.” 

Stilinski just laughed. It was… nice. She beamed. She was allowed to like it, right? Melissa always felt like she won something when that happened. Quickly, before she could lose her courage, she asked, “What would you do?”

He shrugged. “I think you got the right idea. What else can you do?” But there was a strange melancholy in that answer, a vague sort of helplessness. She was reminded suddenly that she was not the only parent with kid troubles in Beacon Hills—far from it. 

She thought about Stiles and sighed, dropping her boxes in her cart. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah. Nothing. Just. Stiles, you know.” He shrugged, a dismissive gesture. She worked too long at the hospital to be satisfied with wishy-washy answers, and some of that must have shown on her face. But it must have worked, because then the sheriff was shifting self-consciously, muttering, “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“He’s a teenager. They communicate in grunts and pop culture references. I thought you knew?”

Stilinski made a face. “Yeah, but Stiles was never like that. And even if he was, I know the difference between sullen teenage stupidity and…” He trailed off, looking down the aisle.

“And what?”

Stilinski looked back at her. He shook his head. “He just- he won’t talk.” Somehow, repeating it again made it sound somehow bleaker and sadder. He paused, then tilted his chin up to her. “What would you do?”

Melissa shrugged helplessly. “Try and try again?” When Stilinski made a face, she hurried to reassure him. “You raised a really good son. I mean, phenomenal.” And he was, but… “Okay, so he doesn’t always respect boundaries. Or, you know, even _laws_ , but… he’s a good kid. He’s been good to Scott. But this year has been really rough, what with…” Melissa paused, all too aware of the gaps in his knowledge. _Hunters and werewolves and monsters, oh my_. Melissa made a vague, circular motion. “Everything. Once he gets his head on straight, Stiles will come around. He loves you.”

And she was gonna kick Stiles straight in the ass if that dumb ass didn’t talk to his dad about Beacon Hills’ little werewolf problem, Jesus Christ. What a waste of a resource, right?

Stilinski smiled. “Thanks for saying that. I didn’t mean to unload on you-“

“It’s fine. You know, you’ve always been-” and she meant to say something along the lines of friendship and _go get ‘em tiger_ , but she suddenly remembered lycanthropy cancelling out cancer of all things—would it cancel out allergies too? Then two thoughts became one and Melissa blurted out, “Peanut butter.”

The sheriff, damn his stupid smile, just looked at her, head cocked slightly to the side.

Melissa grinned briefly, embarrassed. She said evenly, “You’ve always been a good friend and I’m happy to help you-”

“Is that what peanut butter means these days?”

“-but I just thought of what might distract Scott. _Peanut butter_. You’re rude, by the way.” 

Stilinski frowned, thinking that over. “Isn’t Scott allergic?”

Melissa beamed, pleased he remembered. There had been three incidents in one year alone because Scott’s third grade teacher couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the idea that lethal peanut allergy really meant _lethal freaking peanut allergy_. 

But she ignored the impulse to kiss him and said, in a sing-songy voice, “Not anymore.” Ridiculously pleased with this new idea, she opened her arms wide and hugged him. Hard. He needed all of the morale and positive vibes he could get. “Hang in there, big guy.”

“Good luck, I guess,” he said, bewildered. 

And that was that. They parted amiably, if abruptly, going different ways. 

Melissa went down a mental list of Scott’s old allergies, remembering things like strawberries and shellfish and wheat. Oh, that kid had _no idea_ what he was missing out on. She’d told him for years that everything he was allergic to tasted like crap anyway. 

Well, she was gonna show him the truth this time. Some of this stuff was a little expensive, but what the hell. 

Maybe food didn’t mend broken hearts, but it sure as hell was a great distraction. Maybe if Scott was focusing on something new, he wouldn’t obsess over something he had lost.

And if there was one flaw he’d inherited from her, it was the tendency to obsess.

-

Dinner started promptly at 5:45, as usual. 

Everyone was seated, facing each other. Tempting smells rose from plates heavy with food and when utensils hit china, they did so only once, and with an absent apology. One didn’t want to break the plate, after all. It was rude—and one didn’t want to be rude.

Conversation went back and forth about jobs, the house, clients. Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore discussed the state of their finances and, after a bit of gentle back and forth, mutually decided not to have a real summer vacation this year. Going for Labor Day weekend in New England was still a must of course and, oh, one couldn’t forget about Nana Whittemore in New York—she’d never let them hear the end of it and-

and-

 _Oh my God, someone, shoot me now,_ Jackson thought. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He’d never been so bored in his _life_ —and cell phones weren’t allowed at the Whittemores’ sacred dinner table. 

Jackson indulged his general ill will for about five seconds. Then he shoved a piece of salmon in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, trying hard not to spit it out. Usually, he loved it—and this particular dish was his favorite. But now the herbs tasted like ash on his tongue, like a thick layer of vaguely tangy sawdust. He chewed through it nevertheless, trying not to gag. He didn’t know if it was a new recipe or a consequence of super senses. An illness was obviously out. 

It was probably a werewolf thing, which meant Jackson needed to learn how to deal with it or how to bribe their cook to make it differently. But how different did he need it? Lighter on the seasoning? No seasoning at all? Did the salmon need to be cooked differently? Did he need it fried or alive and flapping around on his plate? 

Jackson imagined sinking his teeth into a living, writhing fish. His mouth started watering so fast, he nearly choked. He hid the reaction with a sip of his drink and wondered, irritably, if Derek could teach him to tone down the desire to sink his teeth into something bloody, wet, and still squirming. 

Jackson refused to eat Thumper, okay? He _loved_ Thumper. Thumper was the _best_.

He scowled, but shook the distressing thought out of his head. Even while distracted, he tracked the conversation in front of him easily: his adoptive parents talked, forks scraped against plates, Robert’s heartbeat elevated slightly. 

Jackson looked up at that last one. One of Derek’s first lessons to him was on how (and why) someone should listen to a beating heart. It often told more to the listener than either words or facial expressions—or so he said. 

Sure enough, a moment later, his adopted father was saying, “So, how about you, Jackson?”

“Anything new?” Sheila prompted. She smiled at him encouragingly. 

_You have no idea,_ Jackson thought, but not unkindly. 

“Um.” Jackson licked his lips. “Not really.” 

His adopted parents very carefully didn’t look at each other, but Jackson knew something was up. Their expressions were neutral, but their hearts were beating fast in their chests. The thing is, even if he didn’t have suped up senses, he would have noticed something was wrong. Their questions were too well coordinated to be anything but planned and not one, but _both_ of them were displaying their nervous tics. 

Robert was rubbing his fingers together, a holdover from a beaten back addiction to cigarettes. Across from him, Sheila fiddled with a utensil, always about half a twitch away from flipping it into her hand. Sometime back in her college years, Sheila had learned to juggle knives—and, no, Jackson hadn’t heard the story behind that one yet. But she was a riot during parties—real parties, not the stuck up, circle jerks they started going to ever since Robert decided to get into politics. That was also about the time Robert quit smoking, now that he thought about it.

They couldn’t fool him. He knew them too well. 

He also knew that, after his ‘coma’ on the lacrosse field, they were always about three seconds from spiriting him away to the east coast. They were strangely protective like that. Annoying, but protective.

“Nothing new with Danny, Lydia, one of your other friends?” Sheila asked, palming her fork for a moment before consciously putting it down. 

Jackson looked down at the table. He had been the one to veto the move, so it was his responsibility to make sure his parents felt good about it. So he frowned, trying to think of something to share that might assure them that everything was safe and normal and not… sudden-near-death-on-the-ground-ish. 

But what could he talk about? They already knew Lydia was leaving for the summer and, as close as Robert and Danny’s mom were, Robert would know about changes with Danny before Jackson did. And his “other friends”? Jackson didn’t know what they were up to and honestly didn’t care. They were more bodies than people to him—voices and stories to flesh out his social circle.

No, there was nothing new with any of them.

Jackson shook his head finally, reluctantly, and then turned his attention back down to the peas where he was shoving them along the plate. 

Admitting to anything supernatural was the functional equivalent of requesting a one way ticket to Straight Jacket Land—and that was taking into account a shift into his beta form, just to prove he wasn’t lying. His adoptive parents were the type of people who rationalized away everything that didn’t fit in their understanding of the world. So, no. He wasn’t gonna clue them in.

Then, of course, there was that other thing—the other reason why he didn’t want to bring his family into the fold.

Even if they were the most open, most empathetic people in the world, Jackson didn’t want to tell the Whittemores that he was responsible for the deaths of a ton of people. He didn’t want to tell them that, sometimes, he could smell blood in his room and that, in history class that day, he’d had to leave the room because he was hit by a freaky sense memory of someone’s throat flexing and struggling under the grip of his _tail_. 

It was messed up, and _he_ was messed up, and there was no way he was going to share that with any more people.

Oh. That reminded him.

“There was one thing,” Jackson said hoarsely, just as his adoptive mother was about to change the subject. She paused, waiting on him. She gave him another smile when he hesitated. 

Right. Jackson grimaced. It was best to do it quickly, then. “I’m quitting lacrosse.” Jackson swallowed harshly, staring at the fork in his hand.

Silence met that announcement. 

Sheila broke it with a sigh. “I thought this might happen,” she said, looking at the ceiling.

“What?” Jackson said defensively, eyes snapped to her. Robert just shook his head and took a big, fortifying swallow of his wine.

“Jackson,” she said, putting a hand over his, “you said you’d be fine if we stayed.”

“And I am,” Jackson said, pulling his hand away. She briefly looked stung.

“Running away from your classmates’ judgments is not my idea of fine,” Robert said, clearing his throat. “Quitting just because of a _little_ peer pressure is not what we-”

“Oh my God,” Jackson said over him, “that’s not what I’m doing! I couldn’t care less what those dumb asses think. I’m trying to do the right thing here! The smart thing.” The one that didn’t end with dead bodies. That would make a change, right? The fact that he was actively trying to avoid hurting people?

“The smart thing. Really,” Robert said flatly. He toyed with the edge of his glass without looking at it—no, his piercing gaze was all on Jackson.

Jackson wanted to be angry at him, and was actually willing himself to be just that. But, instead, he felt like shrinking and sliding under the table _to die_. If they were disappointed with him now, imagine how they would feel if they knew the truth?

It was Sheila who pushed forward. “Have you considered what quitting will do to your college opportunities?”

Robert flinched at that, and turned to his wife with a slightly beseeching look, saying, “Sheila-”

She shot a quick glare at him. “No. We all promised to be honest with each other, remember?” The slightly high tone of her accusation reminded Jackson of their last disastrous session with the family therapist. Robert deflated a little.

Sheila turned back to Jackson, her voice gentle but unyielding. “You’re an _athlete_ , Jackson. Not an academic. Lacrosse is your best chance at getting into a good school. It may even be your _only_ chance.”

Jackson recoiled at that. That was… rude. He wasn’t a bad student, okay? He just wasn’t Lydia. Or Danny. Or freaking _Stiles Stilinski_. The last term had really brought down his GPA… but he had a really damn good reason for his distraction.

“Your mother is right,” Robert conceded, rubbing a hand over his head. He looked away for a moment, contemplative. When he looked back, his expression was warm and a little rueful. “You’re an excellent athlete and that can really take you places, kiddo. And you’re not just excellent, you've also been captain since freshman year. That’s amazing. _You’re_ amazing.” Robert grinned suddenly and patted his chest. “Do you know what I was doing freshman year? I was running away from the seniors, not kicking their ass on the field. Colleges will be _all over you_ , Jackson.” Robert’s proud smile dimmed down to a serious stare. “But if you don‘t power through what you're feeling right now, you’re throwing it all away.” He turned back to his plate, picking up his fork. “You’re not quitting lacrosse.”

There was a sort of unspoken “case closed” after that, like it was done, like it was decided, like it was law. And, all of a sudden, the anger Jackson had been half-heartedly grasping at was suddenly _there_ and present and overflowing. He _raged_. 

Visions of his parents were suddenly clouded by a red hue and he wanted to _snarl_ —howl, bark, rip the place apart, because how dare these stupid humans judge him, how dare they decide his feelings, how dare they _even speak_.

Jackson clenched his fist tight under the table. He looked down. There were four points of pain in his palms where his claws dug past skin. His hand was a bloody mess. 

The red hue disappeared almost immediately. The pain was strongly calming—giving him a focus, giving him something other than his parents’ faces to dwell on. Because wolfing out at the dinner table? That was so not an option.

Jackson dipped his head low and trying to will back the shift. He thought about Lydia, first focusing on her smug superior smirk when she outsmarted someone. When that didn’t quite work, he dragged up memories of last year when they skipped prom and went to the beach instead, curling up next to each other under the stars and talking about nothing in particular. 

But then that reminded him too much about their last prom, about the attack, about _Peter_ , about Jackson’s own culpability in that mess. He desperately tried to think of something else, something more recent. Like just that morning when they said their hellos and he cupped her cheek and, instead of calling him out on his increased touchy-feely behavior, she turned her face and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, gaze adoring.

Warm skin, bright eyes, sweet scent. Her voice suddenly. _What are you doing, Jackson?_

Jackson let out a low, quiet breath, unclenching his fist. His claws were gone. The wounds immediately healed over.

He looked up, a little dazed. The dining room was engulfed in that uncomfortable quiet that followed a disagreement. The only noise was the scrap of forks against china as his adoptive parents moved their food around their plates, not hungry anymore but not really wanting to leave either while everything was so unsettled. Neither one of them looked at Jackson, but Robert was shooting concerned, pensive looks at his plate. Sheila stared at her fork blankly, her scent flooded with something like distress.

Jackson broke the silence. “You missed the point,” he said quietly, drained. “I did not bring this up so we could have a discussion.” Sheila’s head shot up at that. He didn’t make eye contact with her. “I’m just here, telling you what I’m doing. I’m done with lacrosse. End of story.” They were watching him. Jackson’s face felt hot. “If you try and force me out on that field, I’m gonna walk away—from the game and from you.” 

Jackson let out a low, hissing breath, and realized that he was kinda okay with that—even okay with the scenario where they left him first. Because spilled blood left a greater, more lasting wound than a bruised ego and Jackson, he… He just didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Why was that so hard to understand?

His adoptive parents were staring at him with stricken expressions. Guilt twisted his gut. Jackson shut down and pushed away from the table. “Be mad at me. I don’t care.” Jackson got up, ready to leave—feeling as if every bite he had eaten that night was about to revisit the floor.

“Wait,” Robert said. He paused, gazing at Jackson for a moment before smiling a little. “You’re right. It’s… it’s you on that field, not me. I don’t have the right to tell you how to live your life. And I’m not your enemy, Jackson.”

“I know that,” Jackson said quietly. 

“Then know that I’m trying to help you, but…” Robert made a vague gesture at him, helpless. “I just think you’re making a huge mistake.” 

Sheila was nodding. “We’re not mad at you, Jackson,” she rushed to say. “We’re just… disappointed.” She reached across the table and took Robert’s hand. Together, they looked up at Jackson, clearly trying to be supportive, and so very much… 

Failing.

Jackson sighed, walking away from the dinner table.

God damn it. He bet Stiles never had to deal with this bullshit.

-

Some time later in the safety of his room, Stiles stirred and slurred some words of affection into his pillow. Shifting, he twitched and stretched, and then rolled over on his back. He opened his eyes.

Gerard Argent grinned down at him, teeth stained black. Alarmed, Stiles started to sit up, but he was shoved back down. Hands closed around his throat hard. Scrabbling at the old man’s wrists, Stiles twisted and choked for breath. 

He was terrified. He was suffocating, he was drowning, he was-

He was abruptly jerking out of sleep, gasping loudly into the still air. He flailed around on his stomach before rolling and falling off his bed. The jolt was enough to shake the remnants of sleepiness right out of him and rip him from the grip of the nightmare. 

For a moment, startled, he just laid on the floor. Then, gathering himself, he pulled his cell out of his pocket and looked at the time. It was ten to seven.

He’d slept for a whopping thirty minutes. Thirty. Freaking. _Minutes_. 

“I’m gonna die,” Stiles whined to himself, crawling back into bed. Death by sleep deprivation—was that a thing? That was so probably a thing. It sounded like a thing.

Sighing, Stiles threw his forearm over his face. He took a deep, fortifying breath. Then another. Then another. He held one in for a while and then let it out very slowly. Then he forced himself to look at his life.

Okay. Fine. He was going to be honest—to himself, at least. But he’d been _trying_ and trying to play it cool, like everything was alright, but it wasn’t working. 

School had been awful that day. He honestly wasn’t sure how he managed to make it all the way through. The entire time, he felt like his brain was floating in a sea of slightly nauseating cotton. And his eyes? Don’t get him started about his eyes. He’d had blistering skin burns that hurt less than his eyes right now. 

And that was just the side effects of not sleeping. The anxiety was probably gonna be what killed him—that, or the fixation. 

All in all, he just… He wasn’t dealing with this whole thing very well. Lycanthropy. Hunters. Kanimas. 

He smiled a little at that. His life had all of the content of regular nightmares; it was no wonder his actual nightmares were so weird, so repetitive. So _stupid_. It wasn’t like Gerard threatened his dad or anything. He didn’t… he didn’t know why he was so _fixated_. Why he kept going back to that scene. Why his mind kept spinning interesting little variations. 

It was dumb. 

His phone vibrated in his hand. Barely moving, Stiles tilted the screen towards him and peeked at the text from under his arm. It was from Scott.

_Peanut butter is amazing._

Stiles stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. “That’s nice, Scott,” he mumbled finally, shaking his head. He closed his eyes. 

Maybe just five more minutes.

When the message sunk in, Stiles shot up out of bed like he was on fire. He hurled himself towards his dresser where he had his emergency epi-pen. At the same time, he tried to grab his keys from across the room. Since he was not Mr. Fantastic, it should surprise no one that this didn’t work—didn’t work _at all_. 

And, to rub salt in an open wound, it was only after he’d tripped and slammed his knee against the drawer did he remember, oh yeah, freaking _werewolf_. 

And werewolves don’t have allergies, let alone freaky, hives-inducing one that could cause asphyxiation in ten minutes or less.

“You suck so much right now,” Stiles muttered viciously, then limped back to his bed, typing out a quick _not cool, bro_ before tossing the phone back down. Feeling as if his ire had been properly expressed, he stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He glowered at the bags under his eyes, the concave curve of his cheeks. 

Stiles slapped his cheeks and then pinched them. “Why you gotta be like this?”

Predictably, his face didn’t respond. Stiles’ last shred of sanity would have snapped if it did and he wasn’t controlling his mouth.

He paused, fingers still pinching his cheeks as the front door downstairs opened, loud and obvious in the otherwise silent house. A few moments later, his dad called out for help with the groceries. Stiles stared at himself for a moment longer before lurching away from the counter. He made his way downstairs, greeting his dad with a quick yo and a hand wave before he went out to the car.

They worked together in more or less efficient silence until all of the bags were in and distributed throughout the kitchen. Stiles started organizing things and putting them away, as he always did. Once all of the doors were locked, his dad came around and helped.

Guiltily, Stiles cringed at the sight of the newspaper on the counter. He patted it twice restlessly before spinning around so he didn’t have to look at it. 

He’d so forgotten to grab that.

His dad looked up. “How are your classes going, son?”

Stiles struggled to maintain eye contact and failed, but managed to turn the spinning motion into something productive by filling up the fridge. “They’re fine.” Stiles flitted around and nosed his way through all the bags.

Stiles didn’t notice how awkwardly long the silence had stretched until the sheriff cleared his throat and tried to strike up a conversation. Again.

“So what were you doing? Just now.”

“Sleeping,” Stiles said, half-in, half-out of the fridge. 

“Little early for that, don’t you think?”

Stiles tilted the jug of milk slightly to the side, considering it. “It was just a nap.” A largely unsuccessful one at that. “Nothing to, uh, write home about.”

His dad let out a shallow sigh. “I thought so,” he said. Before Stiles could say anything, he burst out, “Stiles, when are we going to talk about the nightmares?”

Stiles paused. Then he paused some more. He paused so long that it was obvious to anyone watching that he wasn’t processing, he was just _stalling_. 

Stiles slowly turned around, facing his dad. He was watching Stiles steadily, but grimly. His eyebrows were doing that bunched up thing in the center that made him look older than he was, which was always a sight that made Stiles’ heart flutter slightly with panic. 

His dad used to joke that Stiles was going to put him in an early grave—and it _was_ a joke. No hurt feelings intended. But tell that to a ten year old, hyperventilating Stiles, already down one parent and able to vividly imagine what it would be like for his dad to hit the floor and never move again.

His dad didn’t joke about it anymore, but anytime Stiles saw him looking stressed out or tired because of Stiles, his bastard mind whispered, _you’re killing me._

Slightly nauseous, Stiles did a hopefully eloquent shrug, but all that seemed to do is make his dad frown even more. 

Stiles sighed. There was no way he could pretend that his dad didn’t know. He was not graceful in waking up. He must have shouted, knocked something over, or fallen on the floor—and he had been having these nightmares for the last _month_. When he thought about it that way, he kinda had to applaud his dad for his restraint.

Stiles swallowed heavily, looking down at the ground. There was nothing interesting to share about a dream where an old, probably dead bastard who beat him—and that’s it. Really. In dreams and in reality. There were no threats, no _I’m going after your father next_ , no promise of follow up. Just fists to flesh. Nothing more. A message.

Stiles just couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was… he was obsessing and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like it was the first time he got his ass kicked. It wasn’t like the fucker came at him with a _sword_.

It was just… _stupid_. And Stiles couldn’t even share how stupid it was because he’d lied about what happened, which was just the icing on the cake, wasn’t it?

So Stiles looked up, shrugging again at his dad’s expression. It was enough of an answer. Stiles wasn’t gonna say anything about his stupid dreams.

But, see, the thing is, in the past? Stiles talked to his dad about everything. Stiles talked to him when Jackson pantsed him in the fourth grade, talked to him about Scott and Stiles’ epic weeklong fight when they were 12, talked to him about his first awkward erection in class—and if there was anything that, in hindsight, he should have kept to himself? It was that last one. 

If it happened to Stiles, his dad knew about it. There was nothing too much or too little to share with his dad.

Stiles thought he would have been relieved when Stiles stopped with the TMI, but, instead, his dad just looked gutted. And then he looked determined. Stiles winced and closed the fridge, preparing himself for the conversation to come.

The first volley was predictable. 

“If you can’t talk to me, then you can talk to someone else-”

“I’m not talking to another therapist,” Stiles said quickly, bitterly, his words almost tripping over his dad’s. “This is not Mom, this is-”

Stupid, he wanted to say.

But then his dad was blurting out, “You’re fading away. Like she did.”

There was a weighty pause—a terrible pause that said more than either of them planned to admit.

Stiles broke it, letting out a low, shaky breath. “I’m not sick,” he said carefully, because he knew the symptoms. He’d watched, he made sure—these things were hereditary, sometimes. He swallowed rapidly and said again, “I’m not _sick_.”

The sheriff stared at him for a long time, but nodded, trusting Stiles on that. “But there is something wrong, isn’t there.” It wasn’t a question. Of course it wasn’t a question—Stiles looked like hell.

“I can handle it myself.” Stiles rubbed his hands over his face, groaning. “It’s just… it’s just something- I just… ugh!” God, his hands were shaking. He knew most of it was just sleep deprivation, not anxiety—nevertheless, he felt disgusted with himself. Stiles dropped his hands and cleared his throat, meeting his dad‘s eyes. “Distance, _time_. I- I can deal with it. On my own. _Please_.” 

He felt like his spine was twisting in knots, like his muscles were wound up tight in his chest. He never felt more like _running away_ before in his entire life. He was almost breathless with the feeling.

The sheriff looked reluctant. “Stiles-”

“I can deal with this on my own. I swear.” Stiles’ voice broke at the end.

His dad stared at Stiles for a long time, looking torn. He looked over Stiles’ face with his pale eyes, as if searching for something. “Three weeks,” he said finally, already sounding like he was regretting it.

“Dad-” Stiles started, already protesting.

“Three weeks, and if you’re not better… I’ll make an appointment. And you _will_ go.” There was no give in that statement, no wiggle room. His dad was staring at him with a rigid conviction that said he’d drag Stiles there in cuffs, if he had to.

Stiles unclenched his body and let out a low calming breath. “Fine,” he said finally. Three weeks. He could work with that.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. Surely he could fix his stupid brain in that much time. He’d just have to be smart about it. Mind over matter, yeah? 

His dad stared at him for a long moment, on the cusp of saying something else. Then he cursed under his breath and closed the distance between the two of them, sweeping Stiles into a huge, tight hug. Stiles was just so… _relieved_ —relieved for the show of affection as much as he was relieved for the reprieve in the interrogation.

Stiles hugged him back, mind already racing. Okay. Alright. He could do this.

And if not, no big deal. He’d figure something out. He’d fake something if he couldn’t start thinking straight. Assuring his dad was way more important than anything else.

What was one more lie anyway?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scary stuff always starts small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: imagery surrounding a bad car crash, death of an unnamed character, Jackson is not terribly sympathetic to off-screen child abuse. Otherwise, language, sleep deprivation, and the usual hand-wavey nonsense.

As bad as Stiles was feeling over the confrontation with his dad just the night before, that was nothing compared to how he felt when he realized he’d just stranded his best friend into some kind of self-imposed exile for broken hearted lycanthropes—because, as aware as he was about Allison’s situation, he didn’t actually think she’d up and leave like that.

And his dad just casually dropped that tidbit of information in the middle of breakfast that next morning, like it was nothing more than commentary on the shitty garage band five houses over or how gas prices had risen fifty cents in the last two weeks.

When he saw Stiles’ face, though, he chewed through his mouthful of toast and asked, thickly but with concern, “How do you feel about the whole Scott and Allison thing?”

Stiles frowned. He swirled his cereal around in the bowl, thinking about it. “Personally, I don’t ship it? Mostly because I spent most of my upbringing watching Scott eat glue, so I can’t really wrap my head around him being ‘dateable’.” 

His dad blinked at him. “Ship?” he repeated, clearly derailed. 

Stiles paused. “Right. That’s a new thing that kids say now. Not surprised you haven’t heard of it.” He blinked innocently.

And, wow, his dad was not allowed to look so judgy with that intense of a bed head. “You should check up on Scott. Or is being a friend one of those things only we old people do anymore?”

Stiles clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch, right to the feels.”

But, wow. Allison. Gone.

He wondered if he should be mad at her for leaving—for being allowed to distance herself when the rest of them couldn’t. He thought maybe he could resent her for that. If he had more sleep, maybe.

Too bad guilt didn’t work that way. But Stiles didn’t quite get closure over his guilt for ditching Scott, though, because anytime Stiles tried to deliver some sort of variation of the “that sucks, dude” method of emotional reassurance, Scott brushed him off. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Scott said, eyes focused on his notes. He was staring at them like he was trying to burn a hole through them, or maybe even like he was trying to find the meaning of life somewhere amongst misheard statistics and doodles of trees. 

Scott looked up. “But I could use some help studying?” He paired the question with a wide, not entirely genuine smile.

Stiles let it go and helped him study. 

And that was basically the flavor of the rest of the week—test, study, test, eat. Catch some sleep if the nightmares eased up. Rinse and repeat. 

The end of the school year was looming over them already and he had three projects and four essays to turn in. He didn’t have a lot of time to think on the whole “Scott and Allison thing”. 

He barely had time for _Scott_ , and what time he did have for him was limited to making sure he was studying, testing him on his studying, and then telling him to go back and study some more. Scott’s whole academic career was riding on passing, after all, and he was already so far behind. 

He couldn’t afford any distractions. Such as, well…

Such as knowing that Allison actually texted Stiles after she left? That contact was made? That her continued existence was confirmed, no matter the status of her social networking accounts?

Okay, so, they didn’t exactly chit-chat, but there was definitely a back and forth there before she had to give up her phone—top secret hunter things, she told him flippantly. She was always less impressed with her birthright than her family liked her to be. Stiles once thought it was because Allison didn’t like all of the lying, but that was back when he thought he knew Allison, and the Allison he knew would have never hunted down two of their classmates to get at some guy they hung out with.

But the last thing Allison said to him was to take care of Scott—which, hey. Stiles didn’t need the reminder to do that, okay? But it was still nice to get. It reminded him that Allison, for all her eleventh hour freak-outs, was still not her grandfather. Or her aunt. Or her father. Or her mother.

But, most of all, it was nice that someone thought he could take care of someone else when all the world made him feel like he could barely take care of himself.

-

It was a dark night in Beacon Hills—darker still in the warehouse district. It was Thursday. A school night, Derek remembered dimly. Not that he needed an excuse not to get Jackson and Isaac involved. Not trusting them was enough, wasn’t it?

Looking both ways, Derek moved carefully through the area on foot, knowing worse than squatters or tetanus awaited him if he wasn’t watchful and wary.

The alphas had been in town for months. Derek still couldn’t figure out what they were doing. At first, he’d figured they were just getting the lay of the land, and that, once they were comfortable with the area, they would follow protocol and confront him. 

For the most part, the evidence supported that hypothesis. Their scents were everywhere, which made it easy to avoid them—and just as easy to trace their footsteps. This, more than anything, lulled Derek into a false sense of security—which was dumb.

Derek was so damn dumb, and he was sick and tired of seeing that flash up and in his face in new and exciting ways.

Initially, he didn’t read much into where they were going. He’d caught the scent of one around the vet’s office and another around the front of Stiles’ house before it alarmed him. After all, why would the alphas purposefully hunt out and circle the humans? Most people didn’t even know about Deaton—hell, Deaton had been _his_ family’s advisor, and he _still_ didn’t know who Deaton was.

And what the hell were they doing, sniffing around a sixteen year old boy? Or, worse, his oblivious father?

It was alarming, and alarming enough to shake him out of his complacent, easy inertia. So he started hunting for the scents and they were suddenly everywhere—his barren apartment, the hospital, the sheriff station, the high school, his old house, the abandoned train depot. _In Scott’s backyard._

Derek couldn’t help but feel like it was a taunt, a deliberate statement—like they were saying that they knew were all of his weaknesses were. Like they knew how to gut him without raising a single claw.

And they did. The advantage was theirs. All he could do was track them, watch, and wait. 

He found out just last week that they’d claimed one of the old warehouses. This wouldn’t have bothered Derek normally. Their industrial district was practically a ghost town—a faded photograph of what life used to be like thirty years ago when Beacon Hills meant something on a map. Businesses died and trade moved somewhere else, leaving numerous pockets of empty, abandoned spaces in the small town. 

They were perfect places to conduct illicit activities, if you were so inclined, but even better hiding places for the fleeing werewolf. You’d need an army of hunters to chase down a single omega in one of these areas. Some of structures even opened up to the sewers and pipelines, making the probability of escape rise to almost ninety-nine percent. If you were smart.

But there were literally hundreds of abandoned warehouses in Beacon Hills. Why did they choose this one? 

Derek waited quietly in the shadows, heartbeat slow and breath almost non-existent. He’d followed these people long enough to recognize that this warehouse was less of a den and more of a meeting place. The whole pack very rarely hung around, tending to disperse to hotels and houses in better parts of the town.

But one of the alphas, a tall and harshly featured pale man, rarely left, having staked some claim on it somehow. Even so, he still did not treat it as a den. His scent did not cover the area, did not ward off other werewolves, and did not show where the boundaries of territory began and ended. The only creature comfort he allowed himself was a small cot tucked into the corner, and when he wasn’t sleeping, he was pacing or on the phone.

Or stalking teenage boys. Derek couldn’t forget that the heaviest scent around his and Scott’s packs was his alpha stench. Not that he ever left to do that on Derek's watch, which was suspicious and worrying.

The alpha pack was weird. Their behavior was so unlike other werewolves. Derek didn’t know what to think. They made his hair stand on end. And this one? He liked the least.

Today. Today was a strange day. The ever lingering alpha talked on the phone in short phrases, frowning and rubbing a hand through his tawny hair. Derek watched him through the reflection of a window, not wanting to set off any alarms. Even some humans could tell when people looked at them. For betas, this sense ratcheted up by ten. For alphas, a hundred.

The alpha was a little older than Derek, maybe somewhere around Peter’s age. Derek was never good at placing accents, but he’d say that this one was either from the New England area. Or maybe old England. Somewhere in the old British Empire maybe? Whatever. The point was, he definitely wasn’t local.

“How much paper work does it take to get into a school?” the alpha complained. “It’s not like you’re applying to Harvard, for Christ’s sake.” The man’s gaze slid calmly around the inside of the warehouse, still alert even when hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

The alpha reared back slightly, his nose scrunching. Derek held very still. He rarely saw the alpha look so annoyed, and such irritation could easily lead to bloodshed, when you were a werewolf. 

But before Derek could feel much pity for the younger male on the other end of the call, the alpha just sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “My patience for your codependency issues drops by the _second_ ,” he said. There was very faint amusement in that. “You’d best amaze me soon.” The alpha ended the conversation with a click. He looked up to the ceiling, muttering, “ _Children._ ”

The alpha abruptly looked at where Derek was hiding—three buildings and two concrete walls between them. Derek didn’t dare to move, didn’t dare to blink. A siren went off in the distance—fire engine, not ambulance. An illicit rave made the walls of the warehouse next door vibrate repeatedly. Poorly maintained power lines and lights made a near constant buzz that could easily drive a human batty. 

If he could hear Derek’s heartbeat under all of that…

After a moment, the alpha looked away. He palmed a white rod (a cane?) and tucked it under his arm, walking out of sight, then out of the building.

Derek didn’t move until the alpha was far, far away—and when he did move, he moved quickly, clearing the space between him and the warehouse in less than twenty seconds. He slipped into the warehouse through a conveniently placed hole in the wall, making not a single sound.

Adrenaline buzzed through his veins, pumping his blood and making the change rise close to the surface. This was the moment he was waiting for. This was how he was going to find out what they were doing here. If he didn’t get killed first, that is.

He was already taking a hell of a risk, breaking into a place that alphas claimed as their own. Deaton assured him that the very slightest sprinkling of mountain ash and ginger root would repel a werewolf’s nose without him or her noticing. It was the only way they knew of to completely eradicate a scent. It had worked on him, so hopefully it would work on them. If it didn’t, he was dead.

Hesitating for only a moment, Derek moved to the center of the open room, avoiding the bricks on the floor. He idly indulged suing Stiles for property damage and claiming his Jeep as payment. Stiles would freak.

No, _focus_. He had to focus. 

He stopped and closed his eyes, straining his senses. He was the only one in the building, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

Derek opened his eyes. The warehouse looked exactly the same since the last time he entered it. Jackson’s blood was on the floor—Gerard’s too. If he tried hard enough, he could still smell Lydia’s perfume, the sweat from the fight, the cold metal of Allison’s blades, Argent’s gun oil. 

_Why here?_ He thought. _Why here of all places?_ Was it because he owned it? Was it another message?

It had to be a message. But the Hales owned a ton of buildings around Beacon Hills. Why would a cagey alpha pack pick the one Hale building in town without four solid walls?

It didn’t make sense.

Derek’s eyes swept over the room. There were two boxes out in the open—that was new. They were sitting right on top of where Jackson hit the floor, spine cord severed, gut torn open. Derek approached them, trying to filter out the disturbing scent of his beta’s blood.

Not that there was anything pleasant to smell beyond that. The wooden boxes themselves reeked of rotting plant, wolfsbane, and something far meatier—but old. They were both marked with a large symbol on one side—and that symbol appeared to be drawn in blood.

“Blood, blood, blood,” Derek muttered, eyes darting all over it. “Why is everything about blood?

He raised his hand over the mark of one but quickly pulled away, feeling the will lingering there. Derek frowned grimly. Alpha’s blood was extremely powerful. His own had been enough to raise Peter from the dead, and he wasn’t even meant to be alpha. Why would someone use an alpha’s blood to mark up a box? 

Derek crouched down in front of the crate. He took a picture of it with his phone and then let his phone rest against his knee. Was it a message, maybe? A bloody sign? That wasn’t entirely unheard of. It was an archaic use for alpha’s blood—but, then again, this box was pretty old. 

Derek shook out his shoulders, letting the wolf surface. He was more sensitive to these things when he wasn’t hiding his true nature behind a human face. He pocketed his phone and then reached for the box again, feeling for the message someone—or something—had left behind. 

Instantly, his hackles rose. He ducked his head, whining slightly. Where, before, he’d been blasted with irrelevant human confusion, he now felt a deep sense of wrongness and grief piled on top of a strong desire to take the boxes and dig a hole, hiding them away like a dog would a bone, to run run run like a monster was nipping at his heels and-

A door opened somewhere behind him, shatteringly loud to his heightened senses. Without seeing if he’d been made, Derek fled, disappearing though the massive hole in the wall.

-

Okay, so. Here's the thing.

Scott wasn’t exhibiting his normal pining behavior. It was freaking Stiles out. It was kind of a dumb thing to freak out over, but Stiles' priorities were pretty screwed, okay?

Scott was different. Scott looked out the window with strange silence. He talked to his mom a lot. He slept more. He never went online. It was like… like Scott was sad, almost? But in a mature way, like he was sad, but he was hyper aware of everyone around him and wasn’t willing to let them all flounder around while he indulged in feeling sorry for himself. 

And it was goddamn irritating.

He kept deflecting all the freaking time too, countering Stiles’ “how are you?” with “no, how are _you_?” He was overcompensating to prevent everyone from noticing how lonely he was feeling, and it wasn’t working. 

Stiles preferred the sulking, to be honest.

The change became really obvious Friday night, which was usually Game Night or Date Night (or Game and Date Night, for those nights that Allison was alone enough in the house to get away with screaming curse words into her headset). Scott knew what day it was, Stiles knew what day it was. Even Danny knew what day it was, and Danny wasn’t in their social circle.

And Scott got so worked up about having people trying to cheer him up and offering alternative plans that he’d turned to Stiles with a slightly manic look and said, “Hey, your birthday is coming up. The big one-seven, right? We can go celebrate.”

Stiles stared at him, realizing, at that moment, that Scott had been so locked up in his head that he completely missed _what month it was_. At least, that’s what Stiles hoped the explanation was.

Finally, Stiles said, “Dude, I’m already the big ‘one-seven’. My birthday was _five weeks ago_. And besides, you know there’s only one birthday I’m gonna celebrate, right?” Stiles lifted a fist for him to bump.

Scott just stared at him blankly, leaving him hanging, which…. Okay. So maybe he forgot the big Vegas and twenty-first birthday pact, which, you know, whatever. Werewolves came first.

Werewolves. Jesus Christ.

That was Friday. Today was Sunday. Today was different. Stiles’d woken up that morning with new-found conviction. Well, that and blood shot eyes, a little more weariness, a slight tinge of hysteria and-

Okay, no. The important thing was the conviction, right? Not the fact that he’d yet again been plagued with nightmares and then insomnia, and that he basically trolled forums for six hours straight, and that, when he said ‘woke up’, he really meant _just got out of bed_ and-

He- 

Just-

 _Conviction._

The most important thing, damn it, was that he’d gotten up with the understanding that it was his duty hold Scott together in the coming months. Moreover, it was Stiles’ responsibility to push the pause button on Scott’s life—to remind him of what fun was. To remind him that sixteen year olds did stupid things and irritated absolutely everyone. That it was nearly summer and that meant that they were practically ordered by law to sleep in late, play video games, and eat lots of junk food.

No werewolves allowed. 

(Okay, werewolves allowed because all this hinged on Scott. What he meant was no werewolf _shenanigans_ , which basically meant no werewolves but Scott.)

Reminding Scott of good, normal things was practically Stiles’ _sacred duty_. Which went a little way in explaining why he was currently at Scott’s job, doing his job.

Even though Stiles was operating on fumes and Pixie Sticks. Even though Stiles hated the vet’s office. Even though it was a Sunday. Even though—and this did bear repeating— _it wasn’t his job_.

Because Scott wouldn’t help him break into the community swimming pool until he’d fed all the dogs. Maturity, gross.

“Poor form, bro.”

“Keep dusting, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t even know the vet’s office was open on Sunday, but it was and until five too—except for today. They had to close up early because Deaton had somewhere to be and he had no assistants or vets he could call in. Scott would come in periodically to check on the animals left behind, but, other than that, it was doors shut for the vet’s office. 

Stiles couldn’t imagine how much money Deaton was losing by closing today. But it had to be hard to be a mysterious man of mystery when other people were up in his grill, Stiles thought, and Deaton did like his privacy. The only reason he tolerated Scott at first was because a supernatural happening had to literally bite him on the ass before Scott even noticed what was going on—and, even then, he hadn't believed in it.

Anyway, the mysterious man of mystery was currently going over something in the back office while Scott fed, watered, and overall did one last check on their patients. Stiles was tasked with dusting in one of the operating rooms. Upon entry of the office, he was absently handed a dubious, foofy looking thing (more cotton balls than feathers) with which to complete his task. It was all well and good for the stuff within reach, but it was a foot long, tops, and Stiles still had a whole row of shelves to dust.

Stiles considered the problem for a moment, nostalgically remembering the tragedy that was the last time he tried to climb up on a counter (and the resulting ride in the ambulance), but ultimately decided to not risk repeating it. So he taped the duster to the end of a broom and dusted off the high shelf that way. Whoo, science.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before he knocked something down. Stiles’ coordination was awful on a good day, and this was turning out to be a very, very bad one.

The jar hit the counter and shattered, sending dust everywhere. Stiles sneezed, leaned against his broom-duster, and watched the powder settle. It was originally an unmarked jar and it had been hiding, just out of sight, behind a large can of dog biscuits. Stiles had just enough mental energy to realize that was bad, but not enough to actually care.

Scott skidded into the room a few seconds later, alarmed by the sound. They stared at the dust together.

“That’s not his vet stuff,” Scott said eventually. He had a hand over his mouth just in case.

It took a few minutes for that to sink in—for Stiles to realize what it had to be, if not Deaton's "vet stuff." His stomach swooped unpleasantly and, feeling very burdened, Stiles closed his eyes. “Have I mentioned how much I hate you recently? Because it’s a lot.”

“Maybe it’s an aphrodisiac,” Scott said unhelpfully. His eyes smiled. He was already moving out of the room—presumably to alert the vet. “Warn me when you start wanting to hump furniture, okay?”

“You’re a real comedian,” Stiles told his retreating back dryly. After a moment of sulking, Stiles eyed the counter considering, gauging his horniness level. Nope, no more than the usual.

Jerk.

Deaton didn’t seem that alarmed by the accident. He just looked at the dust, looked at Stiles, then crooked a finger at Stiles for him to follow the vet into another operating room. With a face mask, Scott was set on the task of cleaning it up, which left Stiles alone with the good doctor.

Standing awkwardly, Stiles looked around for things to talk about. Deaton had his back to him, doing something on the counter. 

“By the lack of shrieking, I’m assuming that wasn’t poison.”

Deaton looked back at him with a smile. “I keep my poisons at home.”

That momentarily killed Stiles’ urge to speak. He squinted suspiciously at Deaton’s back. What an unsettling man.

Stiles leaned to the left, peering around Deaton’s shoulder. He was mixing together a liquid, a powder, and something that looked uncomfortably like sludge. Then, suddenly, Deaton was turning around and Stiles was hastily straightening himself, trying to look like he wasn’t peeking.

Deaton stared at him for a moment and then handed the concoction over. When Stiles didn't do anything with it, he nodded towards it. “It will render the powder you inhaled inert.”

“Fantastic.” Still, Stiles hesitated for a moment. He took a deep breath, then chugged. 

Ugh. It tasted kinda… sparkly. And uncomfortably warm. 

Stiles handed Deaton back his beaker, clearing his throat. “What did I inhale, by the way?”

“Powered root of herb,” Deaton said, turning back to the counter.

When no explanation followed, Stiles prompted, “That does what, exactly?”

“It allows for people to see things that travel in the in-between.”

“In between what and what?”

Deaton turned around. He paused, gazing at Stiles steadily for a moment, and then said, “In between the world perceived by our senses and the world that exists just beyond that.” Deaton frowned. He made a vague gesture. “Ghosts, spirits, things that do not belong to the living world.”

 _Ghosts._ That was one thing he could have lived without knowing it existed. Spoiler alert, much?

“Yeesh. Sorry I knocked it over.” Stiles stilled for a moment. Then, all of a sudden, he clapped his hands together. “Okay, cool. Problem averted.” Stiles made as if to leave.

“Wait, Stiles.” Deaton approached him, frowning and shaking his head. “If you do not give that solution enough time to work, then it will be all but useless to you.”

Stiles considered that carefully. “It’s that kind of self-explanatory?”

Deaton shook his head, briefly impatient. “You don’t understand what I‘m saying to you.” 

“No shit.” There was a scandalized cough from the other room. _Shut up, Scott_.

Deaton folded his hands together briefly, then let go to point at his eyes. “Sometimes, when you look at the world around you, it looks back.” Deaton's gaze was intense. “It looks back and remembers. And, sometimes? It _follows_.” 

That was some Lovecraftian shit right there.

“So…” Stiles drew out the word. “Don’t look at anything for, what? An hour? Piece of cake.”

Deaton grimaced. “You say that now, when the root hasn’t yet begun to wreck havoc on your senses. You will _want_ to look. The temptation will be great. So it is very important that, even when your other senses tell you to look? You keep your gaze to yourself.” 

“Okay?” Stiles said, scratching his head.

Deaton stared at him for a moment longer, as if searching for something in his face. Stiles didn’t know if he found it or not, because the next thing Deaton was saying was that Stiles didn’t need to wait so long as an hour. 

“Twenty minutes will do.” Deaton smiled slightly. “Now, I _would_ have you stay here, but I have an errand out-of-town. As you know.”

“You don’t trust me in your office?” Stiles asked, half-outraged. Deaton smiled at him blandly and, suddenly, Stiles was reminded of what just happened ten minutes ago. “Right. Good point.”

Scott chose that moment to come into the room, the eavesdropper. Deaton extended his smile to him as well. “Be careful getting home, gentlemen.”

“Thanks,” Scott said amiably, handing Deaton his coat. Deaton’s smile widened, becoming less practiced and more genuine. He clapped Scott’s shoulders companionably and then handed Scott an intimidating array of keys, all without grilling Scott or guilting him into good behavior.

Stiles had a feeling that the bond between employee and employer was supposed to be less trusting, but he didn’t know how to bring that up to Scott.

After the vet left, they locked up the office. Stiles had vague plans spinning together about taking Scott back to his house and dusting off the old gaming consoles. He could think of no better way to spend his Sunday than spending the next six to ten hours using his avatar to beat Scott to the ground. 

But Scott wouldn’t let him drive.

“And why are you still walking around like that?” Scott hissed, putting his hand over Stiles’ eyes. Stiles just sighed at him, but humored him and handed over the keys. 

Scott was so taking the “no lookie” thing way too seriously. They had a one-sided conversation about all the ways Stiles could keep himself from making eye contact with anything before going home. It was agreed that a blindfold would be best, but, seeing as they couldn’t find one, Stiles would just have to settle with keeping a hand over his eyes while Scott drove his Jeep.

So that’s what they did. His life, everyone. His freaking _life_.

Stiles started picking up on weird noises around the first traffic light of the trip. That was when things started becoming decidedly less fun and decidedly more creepy. He vividly remembered the doc saying something about roots playing havoc on his brain, so he just turned up the radio, and figured that was that. 

But it wasn’t _just_ noise. It was also vibration. It was also sensation—like thin pieces of wet silk sliding over the back of his neck. More than once, he swatted at the back of his neck, only to feel that there was nothing there. It made his skin prickle and his heart hammer in his chest. He felt like he had downed three energy drinks in one sitting, and the effect was just starting to hit him.

Then the smells came—like something dry, something hot, something reptilian just passed under his noise and, ugh. There were worse things to smell, right? But that was strong. Gross.

He clamped his hand over his eyes tightly, swallowing hard. He could sense Scott making a turn, but his internal map was all messed up. He couldn’t tell if they were almost home yet—and, of course, he didn’t dare to look. Not now.

Scott must have heard his heart over the music, because he reached out and squeezed Stiles’ leg in reassurance. He kept on driving.

The music died down on the radio, leaving the quieter rambling of the DJ to fill up the car instead. She was talking about winning tickets and calling into the station, but he could barely focus on her voice. 

_That dog outside._ It sounded like it was freaking out. Bark bark _bark_. Wasn’t someone gonna stop it?

That was when Scott’s werewolf reflexes narrowly kept them from joining a three car collision.

Scott swore and abruptly jerked the wheel to the right, forcing the Jeep up on the sidewalk and into a bush. Stiles was rattled around, but luckily braced himself enough to avoid injury. He was fortunate.

Over the sound of his heart beating in his head, Stiles could just barely hear the sounds of shattering glass, bending metal, and screaming people. Before he could fathom that, no, none of that was happening in his car—or even to his car—Scott was ripping his seat belt off and escaping into the seat.

It took Stiles a couple of tries to unbuckle himself to follow. 

The intersection was a mess. A lanky teen was pulling himself out of the driver’s side of a soccer mom car, rubbing his red forehead and looking shocky. Other than that, he looked alright. 

Scott’s attention was on the second car. He had wedged himself into the small gap between the teen’s car and the car it had been pushed into. He was talking to an older woman in the driver’s side, gingerly using his strength to pry open the bent door to the back seats. Once the metal groaned and gave way, three kids piled out of the back, shaky but otherwise uninjured. The older woman burst into tears. Stiles could see her white-knuckled grip on Scott’s hand. 

The third car wasn’t looking so good. The front completely folded in where it had slammed into the teen’s car, thus caving in the first car’s passenger side. 

Stiles crept closer to it, ignoring the voice in his head that sounded just like his dad. _Don’t go over there. Don’t get close. Don’t touch anything._

There was no way the driver was going to make it. There was windshield glass in his chest, pinning him to the seat. He was unconscious, thank God. 

A shaggy-haired black dog had its paws on the driver side door. It was whining low in its throat.

The driver was dying. Stiles could- Stiles could _feel_ it, like threads being pulled out of his veins. He could almost even see it—could have seen it quite clearly, he thought suddenly, had he been doused with more of that powder. All he was aware of, though, was that pulling sensation and soft soft whispers.

Suddenly, the whispers cut out. The man was dead. The dog lowered itself, pawing at the ground restlessly. It seemed upset. Stiles thoughtlessly crouched down and reached out, intending only to soothe the pet over his dead owner—because that’s what it had to be, right? Why else would the dog seem so sad?

His hand settled on the slightly sticky back of the thing and it was like touching something _charged_. A tingling sensation ran from his palm up his arm and down his torso, and yet, when he tried to move his hand, it was like all the gravity in the world was conspiring against him. He couldn’t move it a single inch.

There was a weighty pause, then the dog looked back at him over its massive shoulder. The dog’s were white—magnesium bright with no hint of pupil or iris, lit up with an internal glow like a werewolf's real eyes.

 _Keep your gaze to yourself_ , Stiles thought numbly, but couldn’t move—couldn’t look _away_. 

The dog considered him for a moment, staring. Slowly, its tail started to wag. 

Then Stiles’ palm slammed flat on the ground. The dog was gone.

That was, of course, when the police showed up and then Stiles had to explain first to Senior Deputy Boyd and then, worse, his dad, what he was doing there, crouching next to a dead body.

-

The afternoon sun beat down on the Whittemore family pool. It was nice.

Jackson was leisurely draped over one of the lounge chairs scattered near the pool’s edge. He sighed contently. The smell of chlorine and sunscreen was enough to stir happy memories of summers before werewolves, before hunters, and before all the shitty things in between.

His parents were gone for the day, scattered to their respective jobs, and Jackson couldn’t help but be grateful for it, be relieved that they were such busy people.

“Oh no.” Danny was on the chair next to Jackson. He had a hand flat over his eyes and was squinting down at his phone, balancing it on his bare stomach. “There was a car accident.”

“Hm,” Jackson rumbled, considering it for a moment. Then he flipped over to his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms. “Don’t care.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Danny said crossly, but it was more of a resigned complaint than anything else. As usual.

“No one we know is involved, right?” Jackson’s drowsy question was muffled in his arms. “I don’t see the point of getting myself worked up over nothing.” He yawned.

“It’s not nothing,” Danny snapped, resignation suddenly gone. “People were _hurt_. If you can’t see how people get worked up over _that_ , then you have shitty priorities.”

Jackson frowned to himself, red flags flying high in his mind. Danny was rarely so sensitive—empathetic, yes, to a fault, but not so snippy. Ever since they got out of school last Friday, Danny’d been a vibrating coil of tension, like he was looking for a fight—like he _wanted_ to fight. And Danny wasn’t a fan of fighting. 

It was half the reason why Jackson invited him over—so he could relax, tone it down a notch before they had to show their faces at school. The last thing he wanted to see was a very public hissy fit. Danny would sulk for months after. He was a champion sulker. He could win medals.

The things he did for people. Jackson let out a heavy sigh, then flipped himself over to his back again. With the same motion, he sat up, swinging his legs to the side of the chair and planting his feet into the ground. He stared at Danny pensively until Danny was squinting back at him. 

Jackson paused, waiting for Danny to say something. When nothing came, he said irritably, “Okay. What is it?”

Danny dared to look innocent. “What?” 

“You’ve been pissy all day long. What’s your deal?”

“I have no deal.”

Jackson raised his eyebrows at him, unimpressed. “Really. That’s what you’re going with?”

Danny’s jaw worked a bit. Jackson stared. Danny’s jaw worked some more. Jackson could do this all day, really, and he had it on good authority that people thought his staring was creepy. 

Danny broke after a minute. Very quietly, he muttered, “Dad brought home another case.”

Jackson leaned back slightly, considering that.

He liked Danny’s dad. Hell, everyone liked Mr. Mahealani. He was just likable. He was a six foot five Hawaiian guy with a weakness for puppies and damaged people—what wasn’t there to like? And, more to the point, Mr. Mahealani got people. He _understood_ them. He had the people touch. 

So it was probably a good thing that he was social worker, right? He had the right skill sets. He fixed people. He made people comfortable. He made people happy. That was all good, right? 

Jackson had to wonder about that, sometimes. He didn’t quite know how the guy worked (nor did he care to know), but he’d picked up on a few things over the years. 

The thing is, whatever agency Danny’s dad worked for was chronically understaffed and underfunded, which meant that their employees had to be creative in developing solutions. In cases of extreme neglect or abuse where the victim needed to get out fast, the Mahealanis were well known for opening their homes to whoever needed it.

That was where Danny’s dad became problematic—at least in Jackson’s point of view. That was where Jackson felt like a line was crossed. If he was in Danny’s shoes, Jackson would have been so pissed to find some broken person in his house, eating his food and taking up his parents’ time and attention. That would have been a deal breaker for Jackson.

But Danny wasn’t like that—wasn’t like him. He never complained about it, he never gossiped about what he’d seen, and he was never, _ever_ rattled by any case.

Until now.

Jackson thought about it a little while longer and then asked, reluctantly, “What’s different about this one?”

Danny slung his forearm over his eyes. For a moment, Jackson thought that was the end of the conversation. About to react accordingly, he was silenced by Danny's quiet confession. 

“I know the guy who hurt her. He’s on our team.” 

“Oh. Shit.”

Danny nodded jerkily. Suddenly, he sat up, swinging around to face Jackson. They were sitting so close, their knees were overlapping. 

He looked uptight. His hands were flexing and relaxing in and out of a fist, and he stared somewhere behind Jackson, avoiding eye contact.

“I wanna… I don’t know. Confront him or something, but if I do-”

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. “Your dad could lose his job.”

“ _I know_ ,” Danny said viciously. His hands closed and opened on his knees and then, helplessly, he was saying, “And, I mean… I already knew he was into bad stuff because he’s selling his mom’s sleeping pills, but I never thought-”

Jackson jerked up, surprised at the suddenly specific information. “Whoa. Hold up. Cody? Cody _Masters_?”

Danny finally looked at him, but only to glare. “I never _said_ anything, okay?” His voice raised slightly, high with tension.

Jackson lifted his hands defensively. “Hey, what happens at the pool, stays at the pool.” Danny looked away, his expression guilty, but still angry too. Jackson held his breath, curiosity bubbling inside of him like it was burning a hole through his gut. “So, how bad?”

Danny dragged his gaze back to him, frowning. “Jackson…”

“Look, the guy has anger issues. I’m just wondering if-”

“She can’t see,” Danny interrupted, his dark eyes hard. His hands were trembling. “Anger is never a good enough reason to hurt someone, a little girl, until she- she’s _six_ and-” 

Danny dropped his head slightly, his mouth flattening in a thin line. Jackson thought that was the end of it, that that was all Danny was going to reveal. Jackson stared at the pool, giving him time to process.

“The parents are trying to get the little girl to shut up about it,” Danny said eventually, picking at the lounge chair. Jackson looked back at him. Danny’s voice was quieter but steadier, his heart calmer. “That’s why she’s at my house.” Danny shrugged at Jackson’s expression. “Dad wants to get him tried as an adult, but… he says they might let him slide on child abuse and battery and child endangerment if he gives up more information about the stuff he was selling.” 

“So. All that for nothing, huh?”

Danny snorted. “Nothing, right.” Then Danny looked away from him again, suddenly distant despite their proximity.

Jackson had that nauseous shaky feeling of knowing you had a moment to say something right, and you _blew it_.

Danny was rubbing a hand through his hair, scowling at the pool’s edge. “I have to look at his stupid, smug face for the rest of the term, knowing what he did to her, knowing he might not get what’s coming to him, knowing that I can’t say or do a damn thing about it.” He smiled briefly, no amusement in it. “Good times! Not that I expect you to empathize or anything.” 

Danny got up, and that was it—complete dismissal. He walked to the edge of the water and stared down at it, back to Jackson. 

Jackson sank a little in his chair, mind whirling.

Well, what the hell he was supposed to say to that? He wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t Danny’s dad. All he could think of is _see, this is why you don’t take your work home with you_ , but he had the feeling that, if he said that? Danny might drown him in the pool.

“Life’s not fair-” he started unsteadily.

“Oh, blow me,” Danny said caustically, turning around to glare.

“Life’s not fair,” Jackson said again with a harder edge, “and it never will be. But that doesn’t mean good things can’t happen to good people.” Inspired suddenly, he pressed on, saying, “And do you know why those good things happen?”

“Why, Jackson,” Danny said flatly, playing along. But he was drifting back to Jackson, re-straddling his chair.

“They happen because of good people. Like you. Like your dad. A little girl feels just a little bit safer tonight, and that’s because of you and your family.” Jackson hesitated, and then said, gently, “You should be proud of that.” 

Danny froze, just looking at him. After a minute of just staring, Danny ducked his head. He did feel proud of that. Jackson could tell by his faint smile, the betraying dimple.

Then Danny looked up again, expression amused. “Was that physically painful for you?” Danny asked curiously.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Danny laid back down on his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. “There’s nothing quite as surreal as Jackson Whittemore trying to cheer me up,” he said musingly, squinting at the sky.

“Shut up. I am the epitome of fucking wisdom, okay? Besides, I was gonna follow that up with an offer to make the rest of this term as hard on him as humanly and socially possible.”

Danny made a pleased noise. “And there’s the Jackson I know.” Jackson flipped him off without looking.

There was a lengthy pause. Then Danny was turning on his side, facing Jackson. “Why only the rest of the semester? There’s still summer practice. He’s still on the lacrosse team.”

“Yeah, but…” Jackson paused. “I’m not.”

He could feel Danny's eyes on the side of his face. Some girl’s life had dramatically taken a turn for the worse, and, here he was, kicking up a fuss about a game. At the same time, it was really damn important to him and he had _failed_. 

Abruptly, he felt sunburned and ashamed and small all at once—like he wanted to lash out and run away at the same time because nobody was going to take this well, nobody was just going to accept, nobody was going to say-

“Okay.” Jackson almost choked. When he looked over at Danny, Danny was resettling his sunglasses on his face, looking as calm as can be—like Jackson hadn’t just committed social suicide. “I fully expect you to lead my cheering section, though.”

Jackson stared at him incredulously. “Excuse you?” But a huge pressure was unwinding in his chest, escaping quickly like air from a popped balloon. _Danny didn’t care._

“Make up some new cheers. ‘Danny, Danny, he’s so hot’-”

With an outraged laugh, Jackson shoved Danny into the pool, chair and all.

It was going to be an interesting summer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is collapsing. It's all our fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, lovely readers. Transitioning to a new job is... interesting.
> 
> It should be said here that the sheriff refuses to involve Stiles in any criminal investigation that has one of his classmates as a suspect. This means that Danny and Jackson officially know more about what’s going on with Cody than either Scott or Stiles. 
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: implied drug trafficking (and consequences of), continued sleep deprivation, hallucinations (or are they?), ruminations over season 2 events, sexism. And I suppose many of you might think that Lydia and Jackson would not be innocently playing board games for four hours in an empty house, so here's a warning for implied canon underage sexual activity.

“So. Summer school. Sucks to be you.”

Scott made a face at Stiles. The two of them were elbows deep into greasy diner food when Scott dropped the bomb, admitting that everything that they had worked for these last few months was for nothing—the songs, the rhymes, the mnemonic devices, the freaking _flash_ cards. 

And, really, Stiles was trying really hard not to be a dick about it, but he felt like failing chemistry was something that totally could have been avoided, like a hit and run with a deer ten miles down a long, straight highway. With a little less introspection, a little more hitting the books, Scott could have-

Well. 

Okay, so maybe Scott still would have failed the class. He’d actually managed a pretty good score on the final in the end, but there wasn’t much a midlevel B could do when it slunk in behind a rash of unfinished labs and skipped quizzes.

In the end, Scott failed by twelve measly points in a class he could have coasted through if all he had to worry about was lacrosse and a girlfriend. It made Stiles want to break something. _Freaking werewolves, man._

But at least Scott seemed to be okay about it. 

“At least I’m not getting held back,” Scott said with a shrug. He had his arms folded over the table, his picked clean plate off to the side. He made a face, thinking about it. He pulled back and leaned against the back of the booth. “But it’s gonna suck, dude. All the weird kids are in summer school.”

That took a minute to register. Stiles was fading in and out of complete awareness, too wiped out to focus for long. He was going on sixty-four hours without sleep and everything was tinged with the slightest touch of the surreal. 

Stiles took a big gulp of his soda and said, with a faint cough, “Uh, hello? Teenaged werewolf, remember? _Embrace your people._ ”

Scott shot him a pissy face. “That’s a different kind of weird and _you know it._ ” 

Stiles just shrugged. He watched Scott eye what was left of Stiles’ hamburger with a hungry expression. After a moment, Stiles grudgingly pushed over the gory remains, because he was a bro. 

A sick bro. And not even in a ‘sick equals awesome’ way—actually sick. He pressed a hand against his stomach, grimacing slightly. Stiles wondered how long it was going to take before his meal was going to come up and say hi. He hadn’t been eating well recently, and a greasy burger was not the ideal meal to be starting out with. Ugh.

When he looked up, he realized Scott was eyeing him carefully. 

“Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.

“Are you?” 

Scott rolled his eyes, putting the hamburger down. “I was serious.”

“And so was I.” Stiles leaned forward, pressing his advantage. “Look, you’ve been… irritatingly melancholy and stand offish since Allison-“

Scott shot him a dark look. “Don’t.”

Stiles winced at that, backed off, and then returned at a different angle. “My point is… you’re even quieter today. I mean, I was under the impression summer school didn’t bother you that much, but… did it really bum you out? All that work, for nothing?” It was driving _Stiles_ crazy, and it wasn’t even his grade.

Scott shook his head. “Harris said I had to get a ninety-seven to pass the class. I pretty much knew it wasn’t gonna happen.” He shifted uneasily in his seat, making a face. “It’s not that. What’s bothering me right now. It’s, um. I, uh.” After a moment of just opening and closing his mouth, Scott leaned in, pitching his voice low. “I overheard something that I shouldn’t have.”

Stiles propped his chin on his hand. “I’m not surprised. Your senses are super heightened-“

“They’re not heightened all the time, God. That would be awful. I was in the other room. I heard it with, like, normal hearing.” Scott paused, holding his breath, and then hissed quietly, “ _Coach kicked Cody Masters off of the team_.”

Stiles reeled back. “What?” he blurted out loudly. “First line, Cody Masters? As in, used to be the third best lacrosse player, pre-werewolves, Cody Masters? Gets all the girls, Cody Masters? What?”

A group at another table paused in the middle of their conversation to look at him. Stiles winced and lowered his voice. “I mean, sorry, what. Seriously? After he was all like,” Stiles sucked in a breath, mimicking the coach’s voice, “‘none of my players would do such a heinous thing, our bodies are temples, check all of our lockers, I dare you-’”

“Yeah, apparently the cops have more concrete evidence against him. About, you know, him selling stuff?” Scott widened his eyes at him, as if begging him to get the code. Scott could and would wage epic and bloody battle against any monster attacking his friends and loved ones, but he couldn’t say the word “drugs” in public. What a dork.

“Yeah, and?”

Scott filched one of Stiles’ fries and, after popping it in his mouth, muttered thickly, “And so Coach did a one-eighty, said Cody was a blight on the noble sport of lacrosse, and kicked him off the team.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Trust Coach to make everything about lacrosse.” He sucked noisily at his drink.

“No kidding,” Scott said dryly. He started looking guilty and pushed away from the table slightly. He stared at the surface of it pensively. “I shouldn’t have been there. That was private. But, see, Coach wanted to tell me I’d have a place on the team if I could get through summer school? Which was cool, but… I really shouldn’t have been there. That wasn’t right.” 

Stiles just frowned at him. Did he not understand gossip was about schadenfreude, not empathy? People gossiped to feel better about their own crapshoot of a life, not to express their genuine worries and concerns about another person. That was for parent-teacher conferences. And interventions. And rehab.

Scott’s dark eyes flicked up to Stiles, as if he could sense his thoughts. Feeling both guilty and judged, Stiles snapped, “What?” 

“It‘s just-” Scott stopped, shrugged. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. “Cody’s not in a good place right now.”

Stiles snorted. “Uh, duh? He’s about to be nailed with more than your garden variety ‘possession with intent to distribute’. He’s screwed. They might even get him as an adult.”

“No, I mean…” Scott paused, then said in a rush, “The guy sounded like he was totally losing it. Like his whole world is crumbling down around him, and everything he does just makes everything _worse_.” Scott ducked his head self-consciously, making shapes in the spilled ketchup. “I just… get it. You know?”

Stiles stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “Your world is not ending because Allison took off, nor is it ending just because you got yourself into _summer school_.”

Scott blinked at him. “Oh, I know. But… but it _could_ feel like that. With… everything. Allison, school, the kanima, werewolves, hunters…” 

Stiles straightened up slightly, because he _knew_ this refrain. Too much, too fast—and all of it, horrible.

But Scott was smiling. Very quietly, he said, “Sometimes… I feel like my life would just really suck right now, if it wasn’t for you.” He caught Stiles’ gaze and held it.

It took a while, but that eventually sunk in. For once speechless, Stiles just smiled brightly, pleased. Scott smiled back at him, and, in that moment, Stiles knew that, whatever came their way, whatever mess brewed inevitably in the distance, it would all be okay because he’d always have Scott by his side. Always.

Stiles tipped his chin into his palm as Scott talked to the waitress about settling their bill. The smile dimmed from his face as reality—or non-reality, as it were—reared its ugly head.

Stiles cut his gaze to the left to their window—and the black shaggy haired dog sitting just outside. 

When Scott looked away again, gaze drawn by another group at another table, Stiles made an angry face at the thing and a sharp shooing motion. The dog just wagged its tail. And then, when Scott looked back at him, eyebrows drawn inward, Stiles sloppily flopped on the table, trying to make it look casual and not like he was trying to scare away a creature no one else could see—not even, Stiles noticed, a werewolf, as Scott’s quick glance at the window went over and through it without stopping. 

Stupid dog. 

Stiles tore into the last of his fries vengefully.

-

It was a June morning, and not just any time in the morning. It was that brief whisper of a moment where the sun shone more orange than anything else, when everything was quiet and peaceful and almost contemplative.

It was lost on Lydia.

Three minutes before her alarm went off, she was sitting up and turning it off, mind already churning with pre-flight anxieties. She had a lingering sense that she was forgetting something, but knew that was normal. Even so, she went over last term’s To Do list just to reassure herself.

STAR tests? Check. AP exams? Done. CASHEE? Lydia sneered. She would be very surprised if she got lower than a perfect score. She was going to judge everyone in her surroundings very severely if they had to take it again.

Final course papers? Complete. Those were hardly anything to worry about, as they tended to be simplistic or, at worst, tediously long in their attempts to synthesize the lessons of an entire course. But they were done perfectly, of course. She would settle for nothing less.

Lydia ran a hand over her face, trying to remember everything. She’d finished her last exam yesterday, so… what else did she need to do before her father arrived? She scowled slightly, feeling like her mind was crashing up against a wall. Her mind was blank.

Good-byes to friends? Lydia tilted her head, considering that. The number of her friends had dropped down to nearly zero with her vicious mauling, which just showed how short-sighted her so-called friends had been. Whatever. 

The friends she still had were already dealt with. She didn’t have to worry about Allison, but she had already left strict instructions with Stiles how to monitor their town and, more importantly, how to report back to her on the most important things. That had taken a little while to explain, actually. It involved her smacking his nose with a rolled up paper when he’d taken her order to be permission to prattle on about small town conspiracies.

(“Latest fashions, Stiles, are far more important than your suspicions about the mailman.” 

“Clearly you haven’t seen this mailman.”)

Lydia tilted her head up, looking at the ceiling. Bags? Packed. Awkward good-byes to her mother? Completed. Shamefully tearful good-bye to her dog? Lydia grimaced at that. In progress. _Damnit, Prada_.

Good-byes to her boyfriend?

Lydia paused. She looked over her shoulder. After a moment, she slipped back into bed and curled herself around the warm body under her sheets, momentarily grateful for her mother’s absence. Susan Martin had fled to her sister’s house yesterday so she didn’t have to see her ex husband, which was both disheartening and extremely relieving.

Nevertheless, Lydia decided to focus on the fact that she had the whole house to herself. Herself and Jackson.

Lydia propped her head up on her hand and pressed a kiss to Jackson’s bare shoulder. He stirred, then checked her clock with barely open eyes.

“It’s six in the morning,” he said sleepily, a hint of accusation in his tone.

“Yup,” she said quietly, popping the p.

Jackson rolled from his side to his back, blinking at her slowly. “You don’t leave until ten.”

He was being incredibly obvious today, but Lydia would forgive him. “Yup,” she said again. She would forgive him for a lot. “What of it?” She traced the line of his collarbone with the tips of her fingers.

Jackson stretched. “Nothing.” He shot her a rare sweet smile. “Just glad you woke me up.” Then he dragged her on top of him, startling laughter out of her.

God, she loved him. She never thought she would, but she did.

But that was what made everything so difficult, wasn’t it?

-

It was ten past six in the morning. Instead of finding himself in bed, cozy and warm, Scott found himself crawling carefully over the leaf strewn roof of a house that was not his own.

He skidded slightly and dropped fully to his knees, barely able to stop himself from digging his claws into the shingles. He swore at himself, annoyed at his lack of coordination. He used to do this more on a different roof, but had gotten out of the habit since Gerard came into town. 

It was too bad. He used to be so good too. If there was, like, an Olympic version of roof walking, he’d bring home the gold.

Hm. Was it roof walking or technically roof stalking? Allison used to say that it was creepy, even if she did bounce up and down in silent glee at the sight of him before dragging him head first through the window. 

It was the principle of the thing, he guessed. Like when his mom got all weird about Stiles having a key when Stiles came over to their house all the time anyway. It wasn’t the fact that he was there, it was about _how_ he got there.

Privacy or whatever. Scott did try to respect people’s privacy, sure, but it was hard to when you were walking, talking, growling piece of unwitting spy equipment. Emphasis on _unwitting_.

Oh, to unsee the things he’d seen, to unhear the things he’d heard… 

Scott shook his head, sighing at the thought. He let out a gigantic yawn, still half asleep himself. He’d woken up somewhere around five that morning, scared and suddenly very certain something had happened. He needed to make sure everyone was okay.

Carefully, Scott made it over to the side of roof closest to his target, leaning over the edge. It was awkward, trying to open that window, and it was harder to shimmy into and through it from that angle. But, miracle of miracles, he managed it, all without breaking a shingle or alerting a single person. He still had, to his pleasure, the element of surprise. 

Then, of course, he tripped over a wire and did a faceplant on the floor. Since when were there wires there, anyway?

“Nice one,” Stiles greeted drowsily. He was flopped over his bed, one leg hanging off. His laptop was resting on his chest, emitting a pale light that made Stiles look ghostly. 

So. Not as asleep as he’d hoped.

Scott let himself wallow on the floor for about five seconds before he got his arms under his body and shoved himself to his feet. He looked around the room, letting himself assess the situation. 

The trash can was overflowing with empty energy and soda drink cans. The air was slightly stale too, like Scott’s trespassing was the first time in a while the room got any fresh air flow going. Speaking of air flow, there was an overflowing basket of clean clothes next to an overflowing basket of dirty clothes, and only Scott’s nose could tell the difference. Soon, there would _be_ no difference.

Scott picked up a hoodie from the ground and put it with dirty stuff, frowning at the sight of rolled up socks in the corner. Stiles was generally pretty neat, for a teenager, but the room had all the signs of a person who had just given up.

Scott turned around. Stiles himself didn’t look good either. He was still wearing the clothes from yesterday—the shoes too. Scott could still smell the diner on him, if he strained his senses. Stiles looked like he needed a bath, some food, and about half a day of sleep.

Scott started and stopped saying something at least five times. There was a little part of him that said that he should mind his own business, but it was being nearly drowned out by the rest of him that was still concerned by the way Stiles had spent half of their bro-time yesterday whisper-yelling at an empty patch of space.

Sure, okay, so Stiles _did_ talk to himself a lot normally. But usually he was talking himself through a set of instructions or asking himself where he put something last and, although he was occasionally self-deprecating, Stiles never threatened himself with _a cone of shame_ before. 

It was just… weird, and Scott had no idea where to start.

Stiles stopped typing for a moment. “You won’t stop staring. Do I need an adult?” After a beat, the typing started up again.

Scott made a face and took a step forward. “Just… stop,” he said lamely, and took another and another until he found himself taking Stiles’ laptop away and putting it back on his desk. 

Stiles let out a mournful noise and made grabby hands after it. He managed to roll himself over onto his stomach, but seemed unable to summon up the energy to reclaim his computer. He made a pitiful noise into his pillow.

“You’re a child,” Scott accused him softly, pulling the blanket out from under him. With ease, he rolled Stiles onto his back and pulled off his shoes and socks.

It said a lot about their friendship when Stiles did nothing but raise his chin when Scott went for the buttons of his plaid shirt to peel a layer off of him. But Stiles wouldn’t be Stiles if he didn’t make at least one inappropriate comment.

“Is this where you de-virginize me?” Stiles asked curiously. Scott balled up the shirt and threw it in the dirty clothes. “Is this a- a booty call?” 

“You wish. This is a wellness check.” 

Stiles pouted, then blew a raspberry at him. Nevertheless, when Scott sighed exhaustedly, collapsing on the bed next to him, Stiles just wiggled more to the right so Scott had more room. Scott rolled over to his back, stretching and basking in the presence of the one member of his pack that wasn’t far, far away.

This was a familiar place, laying shoulder to shoulder on Stiles’ too small bed. A happy place. It reminded Scott of the ease of previous summers—camping and sleepovers and videogame marathons. That one summer of the ill-advised attempt at a tree house. Stiles had been pack before Scott was bitten—he got that now. 

Scott sighed. He’d been doing some thinking and rearranging of the idea of it—of pack. It was less like a cult, less like a gang, but rather more like a family with some supernatural issues. 

Family. They could all do with a little more of that.

Scott guessed he could see why Derek would want more of that himself, considering his past. Believe or not, Scott _did_ want the guy to be happy or whatever. Derek was… okay. He had moments. They weren’t friends or anything, but Scott noticed that Derek hadn’t jumped on him for Gerard thing, which Scott appreciated. If Derek wanted to rip him a new one, there was literally no one who could stop him. 

And Scott had thought he’d kick Scott’s ass for sure. But Derek hadn’t even been mad, just… disappointed, which, ugh. It was almost worse. It reminded Scott of when his mother looked at him, disappointed, complete with that squirming gross feeling in his gut and the clear knowledge he’d let someone down.

Scott’s plan had been the better one, though. Everyone else was focused on the kanima, on the more obvious threat, when they should have focused their attention on the far more lethal one just behind it. Taking out Gerard was _right_.

But maybe he should have found a different way to do it? Maybe a way that didn’t involve telling Derek they were pack and then taking that away. Because the look Derek gave him when Scott rejected him was just… ugh. 

Scott made a face. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so _harsh_. At the time, pack equaled cult in his mind still, and he just wanted Derek to know that he wasn’t going be his attack dog. In hindsight, the idea that he’d told Derek he didn’t want to be family was cringe worthy. Scott didn’t consider Derek to be good brother material, but, damn. There were probably worse things to say to an orphan, but Scott couldn’t think of one.

In his defense, though, he didn’t have good experiences with pack. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd acted like assholes for Derek—and Derek hadn’t acted any better. And Peter? Wow, no. He never felt _pack_ with Peter, just an awful, terrifying pressure—a menacing shadow that didn’t stop following him until his throat was ripped out. 

The werewolves in his life were collectively failing to sell the idea of pack to him. It was ironic that the only two people who made him consider the merits of it were one hundred percent human.

Scott sighed, settling deeper into Stiles’ pillow, his eyes closing. He still had faith in the fact that they’d come together again. All three of them. All he had to do was wait.

There was silence for a moment, then rustling. Then, suddenly, Stiles said, strangely alert, “It’s rough for me too.”

Scott’s eyes shot open. He looked over at Stiles. “What is?”

“Everything.” After a beat, Stiles turned his head, meeting his gaze. “Why didn’t you come?” His voice was very soft.

Scott frowned in confusion. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “Before. I needed you to come before. I was waiting for you.” Stiles dragged his gaze away, letting out a heavy sigh. “I expected you.” He turned over to his side, hugging his pillow. 

Questions dancing in his head, Scott stared at the familiar shape of his shoulders as Stiles slipped into uneasy sleep.

As soon as Stiles’ heart rate fell into a consistent rhythm, Scott let his senses heighten, let the wolf emerge. What he sensed almost ripped a whine from his throat.

Stiles smelled very sick—worse than he had in the cafeteria weeks before. Sick with what, Scott didn’t know. He knew the smell of cancer, pain, and death, but it wasn’t like he’d had the chance to categorize what all the different types of sick smelled like.

All he knew was he didn’t like it.

-

It was rapidly approaching ten, and Lydia was dressed and ready to go. She strapped on a cute little bracelet and walked to the kitchen, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Her shoes clicked across the hardwood floor of her hallway, then silenced as she paused just outside the kitchen.

She still had that nagging sense that she was forgetting something, but everything at least appeared to be in order. All of her bags were packed and her dog was being surprisingly well mannered. Prada had a tendency to chew fretfully on things when her daily routine was upset and her humans were gone, but the pet sitter would be there soon to make sure Prada didn’t eat the house. 

Not that she thought that Prada would do that now. Last night, Jackson had shot the whining dog a flashing, blue eyed stare. Prada promptly sat on the floor obediently and hadn’t chewed on a single thing since. In fact, she was currently sitting outside of the kitchen, as if guarding the room from evildoers.

Lydia detoured to coo at her dog. “Who’s a good girl?” Lydia praised softly, petting Prada’s fur. “Three hundred dollars wasted in pet training, and all it takes is a look from a beautiful boy, huh?” Prada licked her face enthusiastically. “Well, you do have excellent taste, my dear.”

She got back up and went into the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. For a spoiled rich boy, Jackson was a surprisingly good cook. She approached him from behind, peering around his shoulder to peek at what he was cooking—an omelet, apparently. He was a good cook, just not a particularly creative one. 

Jackson glanced back at her, then down at her clothes. He was still just in a pair of boxers, distracting her with all that skin on display. Unf.

After a moment, he smirked at her, guessing at what she was thinking. Instead of making a joke, he switched the spatula to his left hand and reached for one of hers with his right.

Lydia wanted to be distantly amused by the gesture—detachedly observing the attempts of the homo sapien male to attract the attention of a female of his species. Instead, she clung to his hand, stupidly grateful he wasn’t building up his walls yet. She hated it when he acted like he didn’t give a shit about anything.

“I wish I could go with you,” Jackson admitted honestly, pressing a kiss to her knuckle. “But could you imagine a new werewolf trying to get through airport security?” 

There was a little bit of self-censor in that voice, so she swatted at him lightly, saying, “Once upon a time, you couldn’t catch a ball to save your life. Now, you’re the best athlete at Beacon Hills High. You’ll win at this control thing too.” 

Not that she thought he was wrong with that. The scents, sounds, and overall cramped environment of their local airport were enough to drive anyone into a snarling, frothy mess of a monster, even without the bite. Taking a new werewolf overseas would have been a disaster. She was just relieved that Jackson had figured that out all on his own. He so did not like people telling him he couldn’t do something.

Humming softly, Lydia sat on the counter next to him, swinging her legs back and forth. It wasn’t until she was situated that she noticed how tense Jackson had become, how red his ears were.

“About that…” Jackson muttered. He swallowed and then glared at the eggs like they were failing him. “I’m not gonna be on the team next year.”

Lydia frowned down at him. “Which team?” 

“Lacrosse.” She jolted slightly at the news, genuinely surprised. After a beat, he looked up at her. “Are you okay with that?” His expression was complicated and stiff, almost preemptively angry while at the same time desperately scared. And she knew why. Lydia tightened her hand in his slightly and smiled. 

Before she realized how much she loved him, she might have cared. Seeing wasted potential drove her absolutely nuts and she did oh so like being associated with successful, popular people. Lacrosse was the most important sport at their school, and she swore in middle school that her boyfriend would be the best or he would not be her boyfriend at all.

But what was important to her eighth grader self wasn’t important to her now. Certainly, falling in love with Jackson was nowhere near her four year plan, but she couldn’t regret it.

She’d shifted strategies before, of course, but only as a last resort and always with a lingering irritation that people had to go on being unpredictable and mercurial and prone to breakdowns. Her Rule The Cheerleaders battle plan had to be abandoned when she discovered she was expected to stand in line to the tune of another girl’s barked orders while also having to drape a tissue at the same girl when her boyfriend inevitably dumped her. Her patience with other people’s emotions was in short supply. 

Her back up plan of Rule The Academic Clubs was ruined when she discovered that the only people she could speak frankly and without any filters to were the teachers. She just intimidated everyone else. And then her last ditch effort to Rule The Student Government fell flat when senior Cindy Lu won more votes for president in an election that Lydia _still_ held was the result of stuffed ballot boxes (how else does someone get 170% of the vote? _How else_?).

So Lydia was clearly adaptable. Irritable, but adaptable. But, in Jackson’s case, she found that any sort of irritation like that was abruptly stymied by the memory of Jackson lying on lacrosse field, lying on the warehouse floor, face so still and body dead.

She was, with great wariness, actually _winging_ this thing with Jackson. No plans, no strategies, no To Do lists, no end goals. She never did that. Ever. But Jackson was a special case, and always would be.

Humming lightly, Lydia considered Jackson a moment longer. Then she curled her leg around his thigh. He obeyed the nonverbal command, turning off the stove and settling himself between her legs. He looked less hunted, but not by much.

She rested her hands on his chest, gazing at him steadily. He needed honesty. Lydia could do honesty.

“I push you because you respond really really well to pushing.” She reached behind her with one hand, feeling for the utensils on the wall. “If you wanted to quit all of your teams and, I don’t know-” she brandished a whisk at him with an impish smile. “-become a chef? Well, I’d push you and push you until you were so damn good, you’d make Gordon Ramsey cry.” 

At that, Jackson looked relieved, like a weight had been removed from his shoulders. But he also looked lost and confused, like he didn’t think it could be that easy—like he thought there were strings attached just waiting to trip him up. 

And people thought _she_ was paranoid.

Lydia slid her arms around his neck, letting the whisk hang from her fingers. “Is that okay with you?” She pretended not to know the answer.

Jackson finally smiled, slow and appreciative, curling his arms around her waist. “Yeah.” He leaned in, so close Lydia could pick the gray out of his blue eyes. “When you get back, can you push me some more?”

Lydia cocked her head to the side. “Hm, let me think. About what?”

His eyes flared blue and his jaw tightened. “I want control. I want to have better control over this than Derek freaking Hale.”

Lydia beamed at him. “That sounds like a great goal.” She kissed his nose. “Excellent. I will drive you crazy until you live up to my high expectations.”

He grinned briefly. “Awesome.”

They rested their foreheads together gently. Lydia relished the warmth and the closeness—the rare certainty of being on the same page. Jackson’s eyes were glowing that strangely beautiful, strangely comforting blue. Lydia closed her eyes, breathing him in.

Jackson stiffened, pulling away slightly. “He’s early.” After a beat, his eyes dimmed.

Lydia put two and two together and sighed. “Ugh.” She slid off the counter with a thump. Jackson shot her a worried look for half a second before striding off in a panic. He needed to make it look like he hadn’t been there all night, in Lydia’s childhood bed. 

Please. Like her father didn’t already _know_.

Lydia chewed moodily on the fruits of Jackson’s labor, waiting on the door bell. When it came, she forked up two more bites before striding to the door and opening it to Jeff Martin.

“Hi, pumpkin,” her dad said irrepressibly. She rolled her eyes and let him in. He had a PhD in ignoring social cues. There was no point giving him the cold shoulder for cutting her Jackson-time short.

Of course, Daddy Dearest was a little less perky when he realized they weren’t alone. In fact, he wasn’t less perky as he was considerably and intensely annoyed.

“Jackson,” he said in a foreboding tone as her boyfriend wheeled out her luggage to the front room.

Disappointingly fully dressed, Jackson gave him a plasticy, jerky smile, looking rather more like a nauseated doll than the beautifully messed up, awfully arrogant boy she knew and loved. 

And so began the longest five minutes of her life. 

Jackson was achingly polite, restricting himself to responses like sir and short nods. Jeff, as usual, was frigid towards Jackson, and Jackson, as usual, freaked out about this more and more as time went on, shooting her concerned looks like she was suddenly going to think _oh noes, daddy hates him_ and dump Jackson to go along with her father’s wishes. 

Lydia couldn’t decide if the insecurity was adorable or intensely annoying.

But, in any case, between Jackson and her dad, the car out front was loaded in no time. When they were ready to go, Lydia looked back at the house, then at her father. He tapped his watch. She raised an eyebrow. He let out a knowing, burdened sigh and made a shooing gesture. She smiled tightly in victory.

Everyone always said she took after Jeff more than her mother Susan. She hated that and recognized its validity at the same time.

With a showy spin, Lydia walked back into the house and came upon the sight of Jackson hugging Prada, his back to the door. She closed it, feeling strangely misty eyed and approached him quickly.

He turned to meet her, moving with her as she curled her fingers in his collar and dragged him down into a kiss. Between them, Prada squirmed and fought and finally jumped out of his arms. Then Jackson was turning her around and pressing her against the wall.

He kissed her like he did when he thought she was still in the coma, in the hospital—sweetly, softly, but still somehow very sadly. His fingers were feather light on her jaw and warm. 

“Just a month,” Lydia told him, a little breathless when they parted. She gripped the pockets of his pants between her thumb and pointer fingers and stared up at him. She was close enough to see the brief smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and was amused at the sight. Jackson was so vain. He was going to hate hearing that lycanthropy didn’t cure that.

She was aware, suddenly, of how very much she didn’t want to go on this stupid trip.

“Just, huh?” Jackson said quietly. He cupped her face between his hands and did nothing but stare at her, like he was trying to memorize her face. Then he let go of her cheeks and dropped his hands to her shoulders, dragging his palms down her arms until their fingers were tangled together.

Her father honked the horn. They both cringed at the same time and then looked at each other.

Lydia moved first, reluctantly walking back to the front door. “I’ll call. Skype. Whatever.”

Jackson nodded silently, looking miserable.

Lydia went back to the car feeling dissatisfied and somewhat like she was betraying him—which was dumb because no one was betraying anyone here. And come on, it wasn’t like this was their first time being separated. It was just the first time since Jackson’s lycanthropy fully manifested, that’s all.

The guilt bubbled up even higher. Ugh. Maybe she should have canceled—faked an illness or something. 

She settled into the passenger seat pensively, closing the door with a soft click. She pulled the seatbelt over her shoulder, securing it. In the process of doing so, she noticed her father frowning.

“What?”

Jeff glanced at her briefly. “Still with him?” He adjusted his rearview mirror.

“Yes.” She looked out the window, watching Jackson lock up the house behind them. The pet sitter had her own key.

“It’s just… you’ve always been a great planner, pumpkin.” She tensed up at the nicknames. The nicknames were always a red flag. “You’ve always been forty steps ahead of everyone else, and I was just wondering… are you doing that here? Are you really considering your future?”

Lydia tore her gaze away from Jackson. “I’m sorry?” she said tightly, her tone a little too high. But her dad just bulldozed on, warming up to his topic—because it was never important that she learned something, no. The only important thing was that he had an audience.

“Okay, so he’s a pretty face,” Jeff was saying. “No one is going to contradict that, believe me. And maybe he can capitalize on that, make some profit, but how long will that last?” Mortified, Lydia looked out the window, but Jackson, if he was still there, was out of sight—out of earshot too, she hoped. But who knew with werewolves? “Moreover, you have to consider the fact that the kid was practically born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Will he even _want_ to work for money?”

Lydia looked back at her father. “Are you seriously talking about my boyfriend in terms of investments?”

God, why wasn’t he starting the car? Why was he lingering? The last thing Jackson needed to hear was her father’s pedantic posturing. _Go go go,_ she thought desperately, but whatever it was that was in her that was enough to bring a person _back from the dead_ wasn’t enough to make the car move. Not even an inch.

“Don’t get defensive, sweetie. You have to think in terms of strategy. A pretty face may be amusing for now, but you have to consider the investment that will pay off in the future.”

Lydia closed her eyes for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths. Then, calmly, she said, “We are not having this conversation. Drive please.”

Jeff ignored her. “Take that Stilinski kid for example. Bends the rules a bit, okay, but as long he doesn’t do anything too criminal, that just shows creativity, you know? And creativity is a valuable commodity.” Too late, he turned the key in the ignition. “Plus, he’s persistent and stubborn. There’s a man who will work hard for his money to support his wife and children—and don’t you really want that kind of support?”

That stung, somehow. “What if I want to be the money maker?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “What, in math? What kind of jobs are in math?”

“There are tons of jobs that require that kind of skill set.” Despite herself, Lydia was… hurt.

“None that pay well enough to-”

“Okay!” She blurted out. “Can we not have this discussion? You’re ruining our trip already.”

He wasn’t too impressed with that, judging by his expression. “Just trying to have an adult conversation with you, Lydia. Lord knows your mother never-” 

Frustrated and embarrassed, Lydia tuned him out. 

Humiliation gradually easing into indignation, she ignored her father for another twenty minutes, texting on her phone as he cycled through the same exhaustive rants. 

They‘d been on the freeway for about five minutes before he relaxed slightly, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He huffed out a sigh, freeing one hand to run it through his hair. “Your mother couldn’t have stuck around?”

Lydia considered ignoring him for a long moment. Then she sighed. 

The thing about her parents is that they were really in love—once. The memory of that, and each other, was enough to convince them about once a year that they should really _try_ again, that they could make things work _this time_. But, of course, within five minutes of being with each other, hopes were dashed as they were reminded of why they so fiercely loathed each other.

No one told you that the worst fights came _after_ the divorce, when the bitterness had time to sit and ferment.

Gentling slightly at the wistfulness in Jeff’s voice, Lydia put her phone down. “Would that have been a good idea?”

They looked at each other. After a beat, Jeff shot her a rueful smile and patted her arm. She tentatively smiled back—and she was glad. She didn’t want to start their summer vacation on the wrong foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAHSEE Is the California High School Exit Exam. You need to pass it to graduate and they give you a ton of times to retake it if you don't. I took it, so trust me when I say Lydia could pass it in her sleep.
> 
> STAR stands for Standardized Testing And Reporting. They're annual tests given to you to make sure you're learning what you're supposed to be learning. IDK if this is just a California thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help you? Easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: more sleep deprivation. Bullying. Persistent hallucination is persistent. Stiles isn't an easy person to help. Derek's a pushy jerk.

Derek stood stiffly in the produce section of Beacon Hills’ local grocery store. He looked down, considering the rows of citrus fruits in front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, sinking into a memory.

“I don’t _like_ fruit, Laura.” His voice was higher pitched, young, whiny.

Laura jostled his shoulder with her own. “Suck it up, Buttercup. You have to eat your fruit or you’ll get scurvy.” She waved an arm over the bunch, like she was presenting an award. “Pick your poison.” 

Not ten feet away from him, Cora was eyeing the pistachio nuts with predatory intent. One of the produce workers watched her suspiciously, face like a storm cloud and hands clenched around a mop. His mother was aisles away, muttering about price of bread.

Derek felt his face scrunch up as he blurted out, “For crying out loud, we can’t _get_ scurvy.” 

Laura just laughed. She ran a hand over the top of his head, messing up his hair. He tried to fight her off but she was older and stronger. 

Wiser. Better.

Derek could barely remember what she smelled like. He wondered how she would deal with a pack of alphas and their secrets.

Just… better, he imagined.

He opened his eyes. Boxes and their alpha keepers. Who the hell was I.Y. anyway? It was the only thing he could pick up from the alpha blood mark were those two initials. I.Y. Did the boxes belong to him?

Derek clicked his tongue irritably. He hated the feeling of having more questions than answers, and the idea that he hadn’t even gotten one pre-existing question answered during such a stupidly reckless move was just… grating. And awful. And sort of nauseating, now that he’d had some time to think of the potential consequences for him and his pack.

He kept forgetting he was an alpha and it wasn’t just him anymore. If someone got hurt because of what he did that night, he’d never forgive himself.

Derek’s head jerked up slightly. He was being watched. He turned his head just enough to see them in his peripheral vision. Two women, older, late fifties. One of them reeked of muscle cream, the other wine. Not a clear threat.

Stage whisper, real fear. “Should we call someone?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t he supposed to be in prison?”

Derek flinched at that, the back of his neck heating. His fist tightened enough to bend the plastic handle of his basket and he considered for a moment, wildly and out of control, the merits of turning around and flashing his fangs at the other shoppers.

Scott’s ringtone cut through the cloudy rage in Derek’s head. He was palming his cell phone and answering before he could even consider the possibility of making Scott wait for a change. 

“What do you want?” It was a reflexive greeting—sharp and to the point. 

Scott held in his breath for a moment before roughly exhaling, sounding annoyed. “…Yeah, wow. This was a mistake. Hanging up now.”

Derek winced. “No. Wait.” He put his basket down, switching his phone to his other ear. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighed and then said, with as much patience as he could muster, “What do you want?”

“It’s just-” There was a pause on the other end, then a slight dull click, like a swallowing throat. “It’s dumb, but you’re the only one I can talk to.”

Derek strongly doubted that. He brought up Stiles pointedly, not sure if he was being rational or looking for a fight. Stiles was always a point of contention between the two of them. It was extremely hard to come in and teach Scott anything when Stiles was around. That smart-ass, reckless little-

“It’s hard to talk to Stiles when the problem _is_ Stiles, you know what I mean?”

Derek hesitated at that. He turned around and leaned against the citrus stand, glancing around for eavesdroppers. It was ten at night, only an hour shy of closing time. There was hardly anyone around and those who were avoided his gaze and hurried into the aisles. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked finally.

“It’s hard to explain. Look, do-” Scott let out a shaky breath, then said, all at once, “ _Do ghosts exist_?”

There was an awkward moment of silence. Then, evasively, Derek asked, “Are you seeing ghosts?”

“No, that’s the problem!” He sounded frustrated. “And- and I used all my senses, just like you taught me. But I can’t sense _anything_. There’s nothing there.”

Derek leaned against the stand. He crossed his free arm over his chest. “Should there be something?”

“Stiles thinks so. He keeps pretending he doesn’t see it, but then he gets distracted and I can see him looking, and… and he gets so stressed out. He starts sweating, his heart goes crazy, and I… I don’t know what to do.”

Derek looked left and right. Then, very quietly, he said, “You know what you are. Your senses are heightened more than you know.” He shook his head. “If you’re not sensing it, trust me—it’s not there.”

“But-”

“Even a ghost wouldn’t be able to evade you. There’s a smell, a taste, a temperature-” Derek was on the verge of admitting too much to someone who would, with some luck, never truly understand. He clenched his eyes shut, took in a deep breath, and then said, calmly, “Trust me, you’d know.”

Scott gave him a few seconds before saying, cautiously, “So. If I don’t sense it-“

“It’s not there,” Derek repeated.

“Then why does Stiles see something?”

Derek rubbed at his face with his free hand, shrugging. “Have you considered a more mundane explanation?”

There was a lengthy pause. Then Scott said, curious, “What is a mundane? Like a Great Dane?”

Derek looked up at the ceiling briefly. Damn this kid. “No, mundane means normal.” _Don’t you read_ , he wanted to ask, but didn’t. Who had the time to read anymore anyway? “Take out the strange, the weird, the abnormal. A person sees something that’s not there—really, truly not there. Objectively speaking. What is he doing?”

“He’s hallucinating?” And then, with more force (and not a little anger), he said, “ _Stiles_ is hallucinating?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Derek straightened up, pulling away from the citrus stand. “Look, the point is, if it’s not real, it’s not dangerous.” 

“So…?” 

“ _So_ leave him alone. Focus on summer school.” Stiles’ hallucinations were Stiles’ problems, he thought. He had the sense not to say that out loud.

Scott sputtered. “What? How do you know I’m in summer- That’s just-“

There was a wealth of messages in his incoherence— _how do you know, why do you care_. Maybe even _get out of my life_. Scott tended to favor that response. And why wouldn’t he? Of anything he could say, that one was the most hurtful.

“There’s no summer school for summer school, Scott,” Derek said patiently. And he would have said more. In fact, the new topic spurred on all sorts of ill-formed comments about the importance of testing well, of graduating well, of living a normal teenager life. But before any of those could reach the air, Scott hung up on him.

Derek looked at his phone. Huh. He could have ended that better.

He pocketed it and scooped up his basket. With a jerky sigh, he turned back to the stand, considering the various fruits warily. He didn’t even know what a lime tasted like. Which one was supposed to prevent scurvy? Oranges? Lemons? His mind wandered away from taste and over to scent and then… 

Stiles had a worn out lemon air freshener in his car. It was in the backseat, burrowed under a haphazardly tossed sweatshirt. Or, at least, it had been the last time Derek was in there. It probably wasn’t there anymore.

He hadn’t seen Stiles in a long time, now that he thought about it. He had tracked an alpha’s scent right up to the kid’s house, but hadn’t checked up on him since that night in the warehouse.

Derek reached for an orange. Then he paused as it all collapsed together in his head.

Stiles and alphas and hallucinations and weird boxes in abandoned warehouses. Connected, not connected—it didn’t matter. Derek closed his eyes for a minute, but no comforting bittersweet memory came to mind—just a dull sense of resignation and duty.

He had to check on Stiles. 

Derek dropped his basket in the middle of the store, not buying anything. 

It took him fifteen minutes to drive to Stiles’ house. He parked down the street and walked the rest of the way, hands deep in his jacket pockets. The air outside was slightly brisk, considering it was practically summer. The moon was hidden by some sparse cloud cover, but the night was fairly clear despite that.

When he reached Stiles’ house, he pulled up his mental picture of the layout of it and searched for Stiles’ windows. It wasn’t a grueling task, considering the idiot himself was peering out of the window like some stereotypical teenage voyeur spying on his neighbor’s daughter.

Derek stared at him judgingly. When Stiles finally saw him, he visibly flinched, bringing down his binoculars slightly. After a moment of uneasy staring, Stiles sighed heavily and retreated out of sight.

Derek let himself roll his eyes then. What a moron. It was bad enough alphas were sniffing around. Stiles didn’t have to hang out of the window to make himself an easier target. He might as well tape a bull’s-eye to his back.

Still annoyed, Derek went to the front door. Stiles flippantly flung it open behind him before stomping back upstairs. His was the only heartbeat in the house. With that in mind, Derek cautiously went inside.

“Always knew you’d be a pervert,” Derek called out from behind him, closing the door—locking for good measure. Not that a lock would stop a werewolf.

Stiles flipped him off over his shoulder and disappearing into his room. After a moment of hesitation, Derek followed. He entered Stiles’ room just as Stiles was throwing himself back into his chair, his binoculars in hand. 

He’d shoved everything out of the way of the window. His blinds were three fourths of the way up, baring the glass. The light in the room was just enough to make it reflective.

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. “You look like shit.”

Stiles swung his gaze back to Derek. “Thanks, asshole. And you look like…” His eyes focused on Derek’s face and strangely seemed to both dart around and linger. Then he grimaced and turned back to the window. “Oh, screw you.”

For a moment, Derek was genuinely baffled. “What?”

Stiles flapped a hand at him. “You’ve seen yourself in the mirror. _God_.” Stiles brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. “I bet you were the Jackson of your year.”

Derek hated Jackson, but… the analogy wasn’t wrong. “I had no complaints.”

Stiles made a noise like a scalded cat and hunched a shoulder at him. 

Derek sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed, feeling vaguely pleased. He liked this… this bickering with Stiles. Stiles didn’t walk on egg shells around him. Stiles didn’t stare at him with accusation or fear. Stiles just… poked. Like a kid poked a dead thing with a stick.

If Stiles hadn’t been so firmly Scott’s best friend, Scott’s most trusted ally, Scott’s second, Scott’s _brother_ , well… maybe they could have been friends. If Derek did friends anymore, which he didn’t.

The urge to smile dimmed. It was easy to counsel distance when sickness and pain weren’t staring you in the face.

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Let me guess. Scott called you?” He sounded bored.

When Derek hesitated to answer, Stiles looked at him in a way that seemed like he was seeing in him and through him at the same time.

It seemed like just yesterday that he was cleaning dirt off of his hands and intercepting a newly bitten and completely oblivious werewolf and his yappy human sidekick. Just yesterday, he thought. Weeks, a month, tops. But Stiles’ face revealed it for the comforting lie it was. That was many, many months ago, and the passage of that time and the resulting stress was carved firmly into Stiles’ face.

Derek settled back slightly, just looking at Stiles. He used to have such a baby face—full cheeks and healthy coloring. When Derek internally raged against Stiles—for interfering, for knowing more, for keeping things to himself—the phrase _hyperactive baby-faced human brat_ came up a lot, all bunched together like he couldn’t decide which part was worse.

But now, with Stiles’ hollow gaze on him, Derek’s traitor mind flooded with not irritation, but _guilt_. Because Stiles had been a target as much as anyone else had—and was still one. And Derek was just now checking on him, after all this time.

“Why do you say that?” Derek said finally, letting out an exhausted sigh. Guilty, guilty, guilty…

Stiles snorted. “You wouldn’t have come here otherwise. You don’t give a shit about me.” A shade of a smile moved Stiles’ mouth. “What I do. How I feel. And I don’t give a shit about you.”

It was interesting, being baited. But Derek didn’t have to listen to Stiles’ heart to know that was a lie. 

“No.”

Stiles’ smile widened. “No?”

“No,” Derek said calmly. 

Stiles blinked and looked away from Derek’s stare. He rubbed his knuckles against his cheekbone. Suddenly self-conscious, Derek looked away too. There was a stack of books lined up on the floor next to Stiles’ desk, looking and smelling like nothing that was ever taught in schools. If he strained his senses, he could smell a hint of wolfsbane and mountain ash buried deep in Stiles’ closet.

Everyone had to evolve and adapt in the last few months, it seemed. Even the humans.

“Well, since I can’t lower your opinion of me any further, I might as well tell you. Bounce some ideas off your head or something.” Despite his optimistic tone, Stiles avoided making eye contact, seeming awkward at best. 

After a moment, Stiles cleared his throat, swinging his chair back around. He tapped a beat on the window sill. “I’m hallucinating.” Derek looked up in time to see the side of a faint smile curl and disappear on Stiles’ face. “I’ve more or less eliminated most of the causes, so, right now, I’m thinking it’s either sleep deprivation or early onset of some mental disorder that I’m frankly too terrified to look up right now.” His tone was clinical, detached.

Derek wasn’t expecting the honesty, especially not after hearing how much Stiles’d lied and evaded the concern of his own best friend. Then a thought occurred to him and he straightened up, alert. “What do you see? A man?”

“A thing.” Stiles hesitated, then shrugged. “Technically a thing, though that’s rude. I think animals should be considered people—or people-like. I could totally be a vegan, except I love hamburgers. And pork tacos. And steak. Actually, I think I might be able to stomach eating a rabbit too, as long it wasn’t hopping around, looking all cute and cuddly in front of me first.” Stiles hummed lightly under his breath, as if in agreement.

Derek just stared at him. “What?”

Stiles sighed at him impatiently, swinging his chair back Derek’s way. “I’m hallucinating a _dog_ , dumb ass.”

Derek settled back slightly, feeling swooping sense of relief mixed with disappointment. “A dog. Are you sure it’s a dog?” Not a wolf?

Stiles pushed away from the wall with his foot, just enough to grab his laptop from his desk. “Even got its breed, bro.” He rolled his chair back over to the bed, waking up his computer from sleep. He tapped a few keys, switched to a tab, and then shoved his laptop at Derek. “Newfoundland dogs. They’re called Newfies.”

“Cute,” Derek said distractedly, handling the computer with care.

Stiles shot him wide, sharp edged smile. “Isn’t it?”

When Derek finally looked down at the images in front of him, he raised his eyebrows. “That’s a huge freaking dog.” Definitely not a wolf, were or otherwise.

“I know. Like a horse.”

“Or a tiny bear.” That got a snort of amusement out of Stiles. Derek scrolled down, scanning through the website. “They don’t look all that threatening.”

“Yeah, well. You’re used to wolves. But when this guy’s eyes start to glow, it’s just…” Stiles shrugged, looking uncomfortable. He clapped his hands on his knees and said, quickly, “If it’s me, if it’s the sleep deprivation’s work, then, fine. Whatever. I’ll ignore it.” For a moment, he was very still. “But what if it’s _something_? What if I’m wrong, and and- it turns out to be something bad?” He rubbed at his eyes, covering his face with his hands. “I’ve been wrong so much lately, and I just- I just can’t.”

Derek stared at him, feeling a reluctant twinge of sympathy—for the shadows under his eyes, if anything at all. “Since when have you been wrong?”

Stiles dropped his hands, blinking at Derek sleepily. “What?”

“From where I’m standing, you seem like you’re right about a lot of stuff a lot of the time.” Derek was the one who kept making the mistakes. It was half the reason why Stiles irritated him so much.

“I was wrong enough times to know that I don’t want to be wrong now.” Derek just gave him a wordless shrug, lifting his shoulders in a gesture that made Stiles’ jaw tighten and his face shut down like a sulky twelve year old.

And Derek thought that was the end of it, really. That they had already exhausted the limits of their tolerance of each other. He even stood, setting aside Stiles’ laptop in favor of an easier exit. But Stiles wasn’t quite done yet. 

“I thought…” Stiles hesitated, gaze focused on Derek’s collar. The moon lit up his face, making his eyes look just two shades off a beta’s gold. “I thought Scott would save me from the Argents’ basement. When Gerard had me?” Stiles frowned and shrugged. “I thought he would just, you know. Know. That I was in trouble. That I needed him.” After a beat, his eyes jumped up Derek’s face, questioning.

Derek swallowed. After a moment, he said, carefully, “Believe it or not, your little alpha is not actually an alpha. There is no pack bond, no shared… impressions between you three.” There was potential there, though, but Derek didn’t want to talk about it. Not when there was still a snowball’s chance in hell that Scott might wise up and join Derek’s pack.

Stiles smiled thinly. “Good to know what I was wrong about. Exactly.”

“That was _one_ thing.”

“It was a _big_ thing.”

After a moment, Derek looked away. It was. It was a big thing. It could have killed him.

“Get some sleep,” Derek said finally. When Stiles just stared at him, eyes narrow, he said impatiently, “You have a hypothesis, right? So test it. The hallucination is caused by sleep deprivation. Therefore, if you get sleep, it should go away.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“ _Make it_ that simple,” Derek bit out. He reached out and pulled down the blinds, blocking out the moon. He took in a deep breath and it seemed like all he could smell was sweat and adrenaline and fear. He almost choked on it. It stunk up Stiles’ entire bed. 

After a beat, Derek looked at Stiles. Stiles got up from the chair slowly, shoulders rigid and eyes focused on Derek’s shoes. He considered Stiles for a minute. 

The kid was tall and not insubstantial. He would have been a decent athlete, if he just focused a bit and practiced a bit more. He looked like he still had some growing to do, but he was sturdy, if a bit thin. Physically, he did not seem like the weedy, tiny human geeks Derek had terrorized in high school, even if he did act an awful lot like one.

And Stiles didn’t scare easily. Werewolves. Kanima. Hunters. He’d always adapted so quickly, no matter the circumstances.

It seemed like such a shame that his mind broke now, of all times, when things were starting to look semi-peaceful.

Oblivious to Derek’s thoughts, Stiles side-stepped him and starfished out over his bed, clipping Derek’s calf with his heel. Derek made a face and backed up a step. Advanced healing or not, that freaking _hurt_. He resisted the urge to rub it.

He found himself looking at Stiles’ calendar instead. “You have lacrosse practice tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Ugh, I don’t even want to know how you know that.”

Derek ignored the bait. “How do you expect to keep up with Finstock’s demands on only a few hours sleep?”

“Magic and pixie dust,” Stiles mumbled into his pillow.

Derek huffed out a small laugh, hiding it in a cough. He looked back at the bed in time to see Stiles watching him, gaze vague and unfocused but mouth smiling.

“You’re the second werewolf to bully me back to sleep today.”

“Is that so.”

“Yeah.” Stiles let out a huge yawn. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Derek’s thoughts turned inward. 

Alphas. Blood smeared boxes. The mysterious I.Y. Teaching his betas more than violence, more than control. Hell yes, he had better things to do than this.

He lingered anyways and looked at Stiles’ books as Stiles’ heart steadied and his breathing deepened and his restless mind finally drifted off to sleep. 

He stayed a little longer after that. A lot longer, if he was going to be honest—long enough to hush Stiles back to sleep after one hell of a nightmare. 

They weren’t friends. They weren’t pack. Even allies wasn’t the right word. But there was still something there. Something that wasn’t indifference, wasn’t hatred. And it was enough for Derek to want to make sure Stiles was okay.

For now.

-

It was that time in the morning where the sky was more gray than anything else, and Scott was walking Stiles to the locker room. Finstock set practice to start even earlier than summer school. It was ridiculous. Scott smothered a yawn in his hand, barely aware of his surroundings.

Next to him, Stiles was chattering a mile a minute, more alert than he’d been in a while. Scott just basked in the return of his best friend’s energy, not quite tuning in. 

Until, abruptly, he was.

“-and, you know, you’d think that, after weeks of solid nightmares, having an alpha werewolf in your bedroom would be freaky-deaky and all, but it was strangely comforting.”

Wait, what? 

“Since when have you been having nightmares?”

Stiles stopped mid-step. He looked thoughtful. “I haven’t said anything?”

“You’ve been kinda quiet, dude.”

After a beat, they started walking again, shoulders bumping into each other.

“Well, in my defense, you’re my bestest bud. I just assumed we upgraded our automatic telepathy skill.” Stiles grinned. “That would suck for you. I think about sex, like, all of the time.”

He then gave Scott a detailed bullet point list about all the different types of sex he was going to have in the future. It got so bad, Scott clamped his palms over his ears to avoid listening. Stiles was the worst virgin ever.

They reached the locker room. Stiles wheeled around, facing Scott. He had an impish look on his face. 

Exhausted, Scott waved him off. “Just… go before Finstock kills you.”

Stiles pouted at him and then made a fuss out of straightening Scott’s shirt. “Do good in school today, sweetie,” Stiles said with a fake sniffle.

Scott ducked out of his way when he made to catch Scott in a headlock and they play-fought for a second, just like old times, before a protesting Stiles was carted away by a bleary eyed Danny and two sophomores Scott didn’t know.

“Have fun and make good choices!”

God, Stiles. He was so _embarrassing_.

Scott spun on his heel and walked to the parking lot, grinning. Stiles’ playfulness had his mood soaring briefly before the reality of summer school kicked in. He’d never been before, but he had the feeling it was going to suck. 

He didn’t need to look at his paperwork—he already knew it was going to be in the same awful classroom. It was bad enough that everything smelled sharp and dangerous in there, but to have Harris again? Ugh.

When he walked into the room, a good twenty minutes before class was about to start, it was nearly empty, save for an entwined couple near the back. Scott looked at them wistfully a moment, but stayed far, far away. The pheromones they were putting off were NC-17, even if their display was only PG. 

He decided to sit in front, if only to look extra attentive and avoid the temptation of doodling. He sighed and pulled out a book. He was starting a thing this summer. He was going to read all of the next year’s required reading list so that, when the new term started, he would be more than ready for discussion.

Next year was going to be different. Next year was going to be _better._ He could feel it.

He was one chapter into _Of Mice and Men_ when he registered the scrape of a chair right next to him. He froze for a second, realizing the room was almost completely full (damn, how many did Harris fail?) and that the person next to him likely had nowhere else to sit. 

Scott took a deep breath, realizing he had to introduce himself to the person who was likely going to be his new lab partner. He hoped they didn’t suck. Oh God, did he hope.

After procrastinating for a good thirty seconds, Scott finally turned to meet his new partner, mouth opening in preparation for a good morning.

“Derek’s right. Your sense of smell sucks.”

He almost bit his tongue. Isaac just smirked at him, not quite as mean as he could be, but definitely still having some amusement at Scott’s expense.

“Oh my God. I didn’t know you were in this class too!”

Isaac’s jaw tightened slightly. “Chemistry wasn’t my best subject.” He was trying to be casual about it, but he was still taking it personally, somehow.

Scott clapped his hand on the guy’s shoulder companionably, then released him. “Uh, you want to, uh. Work together for this class? Lab partners, study buddies—that sort of thing?”

Isaac ducked his head slightly. Softly, he said, “You sure? I mean, I just-”

“I’m sure.” And then, knowing the kind of shitty self-esteem shitty fathers give their sons, Scott made eye contact and held it. “I’d rather have you than anyone else in this class.”

Isaac stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Then, suddenly, his face wiped clean of any expression and he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chair. “Thanks,” he said quietly. There was a conflicted, complicated expression on his face, so Scott just nodded and looked away, allowing Isaac to gather his composure.

“Well, let’s try not to poison anyone this time, okay?”

Isaac snorted. “As you wish.”

Scott could almost feel how pleased Isaac was, which was weird. Happiness didn’t have a smell.

Before Scott could say anything else, an eighty year old man wandered into the room. He was wearing khakis and a striped cardigan, most of which was blocked from view, thanks to the leather briefcase he clasped against his chest.

Not Harris, then. His day was already looking up.

The stranger dropped his case on the table and looked out at his students. After a pause, he introduced himself peacefully as Mr. Harvey. While prepping something at his desk, he started the class with a little speech about how they might be people failed chemistry the first time around- 

“Or you might be one of those strange people who takes the class early.”

-but that in no way shaped his opinion of them. All he asked of them was that they did their work, that they read their assignments, and that, most importantly, they _paid attention_.

“Like so. Think fast!” And then he started the lesson by flicking _flaming balls of cotton_ at them. 

Or rather, at the table. In any case, Isaac and Scott pushed away from their table so fast, their chairs hit the table behind them, sending it sliding back about four inches. While their fellow classmates complained in alarm, Harvey just laughed, delighted, and asked them what sports teams they were on. 

“Good sport, lacrosse. Lots of physics.”

Harvey turned his attention to another table, starting a back and forth with the next two students about flame and accelerants and the role of oxygen in such reactions. After he’d drained those two of all the information he was looking for, he picked two people in the back to help him set up a wide plastic shield. 

Cheerfully, he set out a bunch of different jars, packets and beakers of things on the table, keeping the shield between those things and the class. The most interesting things about the elements, he claimed, were the vastly different reactions they inspired under certain conditions. 

Then he went to show them exactly what kinds of reactions those were. Scott had never seen so many things blown up in a thirty minute period, and he’d peeked in on an Argent training session once.

This was so very unlike Harris’ class, where they spent a great majority of the time sorting electrons into different energy levels or balancing equations or converting numbers or reading tiny little numbers off of spectrophotometers.

Even after Harvey stopped wowing them with explosions and flashy reactions, he still kept Scott’s full attention. It wasn’t that he wasn’t an asshole—even though he wasn’t. It was the fact that he went so far out of his way to make the students feel good about their answers. Scott found himself raising his hand more and more.

Harvey did an exaggerated double-take when Scott answered a tough question. “Right answer, right answer, right answer. Why aren’t you up here teaching this class?”

There was an explosion of giggles in the classroom, but it didn’t feel mean. “I failed before, sir.” Scott glanced at Isaac, who half-smiling and watching him back. “I guess I just remember more than I thought I would.”

“Well, I have a feeling you’re going to ace this class just fine.”

Scott had never felt so damn good about chemistry before. And it wasn’t just him. Isaac was caught up in it too. Harvey had admired Isaac first for his steady hands, which inspired Isaac to raise his hand more. 

Isaac didn’t get the math and he was muddled on some of the basic theories—just like Scott. Also like Scott, he just remembered things. But he remembered different things, like atomic numbers and why noble gases didn’t react and what Avogadro’s number was and what it was for. Isaac took to the approval and praises like a flower took to the sun.

Scott had never laughed so much in class before. Despite a twenty-page reading assignment and one paper, he left the room flushed and somewhat giddy.

Isaac turned to him as they walked out, clutching the arm of his backpack. “I gotta go but, wow.” He smiled. “I have a good feeling about this summer.” Happiness was a good look on him.

Scott balanced his binder on his hip and gave Isaac a little wave. “Me too. See you later.”

With that, Scott and Isaac went their separate ways. Scott went for his locker—not because he was using it, but because he promised Stiles he’d meet him there. He hummed slightly, in a good mood and not afraid to hide it.

And then he turned the corner and all he could see was Stiles, leaning up against the lockers and drained, like all the energy from before had been leeched out of him. Scott slowed down, his cheer fading. He hoped that was just the effect of Finstock’s suicide runs.

Stiles mustered up a smile for him, pushing away from the lockers. “So, how’s the class?” 

Scott immediately grinned. “The teacher is amazing. Plus, Isaac’s in there, so I’m not alone.”

“Cool. Guess you don’t need me, then.” Stiles nodded to himself, something strained in his voice. He leaned over and rubbed his thigh a little.

Before Scott could address that, he suddenly saw an orange slip of paper poking out of his binder. “Oh, crap. I have to give this to Mr. Harvey.”

Stiles made a dismissive gesture with his hand, leaning back against the wall with a huge yawn. So Scott turned around and jogged to class, his orange slip clenched in his fist. He caught Harvey just as the old man was coming out of the classroom. After apologizing profusely and handing over the piece of paper, Scott stayed for a moment, exchanging pleasantries. Harvey was quieter outside of his teacher’s performance persona, but no less kind.

Somehow, they got into how he’d failed the first time around and Scott found himself passionately talking about how many distractions there were at school and how difficult it was to focus on a difficult subject like chemistry when the whole world was out there, ready to make you fail. Harvey nodded along sympathetically and said something along the lines of knowing how that was like and that was why school gave you second chances.

“And I know it’s still difficult, Scott, but you have that chance to turn things around now. Don’t blow it.” Harvey patted his shoulder. “If you feel like you’re being overwhelmed again, come talk to me. We’ll work something out.”

Scott thanked him and they parted ways. He was struck with the idea that summer school wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

And then, just as he turned around, Scott’s hearing suddenly spiked. 

Stiles’ voice was in his head, slightly out of breath and wheezing. "Oh my god, why are you-" He was panicking. 

Then Scott was panicking. Scott ran down the hall, forcing down the shift even as he skidded around the corner.

Stiles was pressed up against the wall, two fists tangled in the front his practice jersey. And who was in his face, but Cody Masters.

Any sympathy Scott had for the guy withered up and died.

“-and I swear to God, if I find out you squealed about anything, you little shit-”

Stiles was breathless, but livid. “And why would I know about anything, huh? No one tells me anything, they know who my dad is. And, frankly, if they were stupid enough to tell me, then they deserve to go to jail. Just. Like. You.”

Cody slammed his fist against the locker right behind Stiles. The gesture was louder than anything, meant to scare rather than to harm. And it worked—Stiles’ face lost color so fast, Scott almost choked. 

“Hey!” Scott snapped out, dropping his binder to the floor.

Cody looked over at him lazily, unimpressed. “Oh, look. Your girlfriend is here.”

Scott took a step towards Cody, not wanting to fight. “Just back off, okay?”

Cody was a year older than them, and he looked every inch. He had dark hair, darker eyes, and deeply tanned skin. He was bigger than Stiles and heavier, and, in that moment, he seemed more terrifying than Derek Hale because he just did not care. At all.

“What are you gonna do, tell?” Cody smirked and leaned a little closer to Stiles, putting his weight on his chest. Stiles _wheezed_. “Been there, done that, right?” 

Just as suddenly as Cody’d crowded Stiles, he let him go, shoving him in Scott’s direction. Then Cody walked away.

Stiles stumbled a bit, catching his breath. And then, the actual second after he’d finally caught his breath, he shouted after him, “Good luck on the court case!” 

Scott palmed his face. If looks could kill.

After a minute, Scott turned his attention to Stiles, looking him up and down. Stiles’ hands were shaking. Despite all of his energy that morning, it looked like he hadn’t slept, ever. It was like he was the opposite of Rip Van Winkle—Rip Van Insomniac.

“Dude, that did not sound like a conversation in a vacuum,” Scott said. Stiles hunched a shoulder at him. “Has he approached you before?”

Stiles ran a hand over his head and gestured vaguely at the end of the hall. “Oh, don’t worry about it. He’s an asshole.” Which was a yes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott demanded, frustrated.

“Uh.” Stiles looked confused. “Why would I?”

“Because I’m your best friend? Because I’m your backup? Come on.”

“Uh, those sound like reasons why I wouldn’t bring you, dude.” Stiles paced a little, walking as if he was favoring one leg. “I’m not exactly going to force my severely asthmatic bro to go head to head with a freaking… _jerk_ like that.”

Scott looked both ways and then said, quietly, “Dude, I’m a _werewolf_.”

Stiles stopped pacing and just stared. And then, of all things, Stiles _laughed_. It was a pitiful and hoarse noise, but a laugh all the same. “All the more reason not to tell you! It’s like bringing a gun to a battle of wits. It’s just not done.”

Stiles didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all.

“Look, if we weren’t in public, that guy would have _hurt_ you. He’s bigger than you by four inches and fifty pounds—all muscle, by the way! If he bothers you again, you _have_ to tell me.”

But Scott forgot. No one told Stiles to do anything. 

Stiles’ expression turned cold and his mouth twisted. He took a step closer to Scott. “I appreciate the _belated_ concern in my physical health, but you are way out of line here.” Every word was like a blade. “This is a human thing, not a wolf thing. Butt. Out.”

Then he just walked away, leaving Scott to marvel over how much words could hurt.

-

Stiles was having a no good, very bad day. And Cody? That prick was just the icing on the cake. 

First, he’d fallen asleep on the bench during one of Finstock’s speeches, because, damn, did Danny make a comfortable pillow. Once the jig was up, Finstock made him run until he puked. After he assessed that Stiles wasn’t going to die on his field, Finstock set him to the task of chasing after wayward balls that flew off into the surrounding woods. 

This wasn’t actually a bad task, actually. He was allowed to slow down to a brisk walk, as long as they didn’t run out. It didn’t take long for the knife in his lungs to fade away, leaving just an aching, warning soreness in its place.

And then, just as Stiles started to relax, what did Stiles see, but the bane of his existence? 

His hallucination, at the very least, seemed to find chasing after balls very rewarding, which made sense because, yeah. Dog.

Then he got nailed in the thigh with a lacrosse ball and then he had to run some more and then Cody happened and then he made Scott feel like shit, so… yeah. Stiles was done. Game over.

He went home and fell asleep on the couch. He woke up every twenty minutes, twitching awake at every creak and noise in the house. He gave up after the third time and played games on his phone until his dad got home. 

The rest of the night passed in a blur. He felt like a zombie, but more like the really lame one who ran into the wall more than it ran after food. He knew his dad was disturbed by it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

After dinner, his dad excused himself to his room, leaving Stiles to flatten himself out on the couch to try and sleep again. It worked for a little bit. 

Then Stiles was wide awake at 12:53 am and armed with the knowledge that, that scraping noise at the back door? Yeah, that was not in his head.

He sat still and listened. Before doubt could set in, he heard it again—a rustling noise, like wood against wood.

Stiles flung himself to the floor, grasping for his discarded bag. After some fumbling, he closed his hands against his crosse and pushed himself to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. Stick held firmly to his chest, he darted quietly into the kitchen and just outside the back door. He pressed himself against the wall and held his breath.

Then the back door opened, slowly and quietly. Stiles almost choked on a burst of terror as a long, stretched out shadow glided across the floor, emphasized by the sparse moonlight. Then there was a foot step—shoes hitting hard wood. Then another footstep. 

Stiles took a quiet, but deep breath, stepped away from the wall and _swung_

The intruder caught it in one hand, then he flicked on the light, nearly blinding Stiles. 

Derek did not look impressed.

Stiles gasped, grabbing his chest. “Dude-” The stick clattered to the ground.

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?

Stiles gaped at him for a moment before stuttering out, “A-awfully judgy for a guy who just broke into my house, don’t you think?”

Derek frowned, then looked around. “This is how I always get in.”

“Whoa, okay. Trying to defend it as a habit? Yeah, that’s not gonna help you in court. Just so you know.”

Derek nodded once, closing the door. “Noted.” 

“No, not noted,” Stiles snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “Why are you here? Did someone die?”

Derek shot him an impatient look and bent over to pick up the crosse on the floor, which, ugh. Stiles was sleep deprived, not dead. Derek was wearing a tight white undershirt so thin, it was almost sheer. If it was that distracting to watch him bend over from the front, then Stiles couldn’t even imagine how devastating it would be to see him bent over from behind.

Derek straightened up, looking at Stiles suspiciously. This, naturally, made Stiles pretend he was doing anything but ogling the guy’s ridiculously well shaped torso. 

“You still haven’t been sleeping.”

Stiles looked up from where he was petting the cabinet. “Deflecting is rude.”

“It’s not deflecting. That’s why I’m here.” Derek crossed his arms over his chest. Goddamnit. “It’s one in the morning. Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

Stiles took a moment to mentally gawk over the reality that was his number one frenemy looking bent out of shape over Stiles’ sleeping habits. Was he in an alternate universe? Was this the evil version of Derek? Oh God. Was _he_ the evil version of Stiles?

“Oh my God, you’re not my dad.”

Derek raised both of his eyebrows. “Who’s deflecting now?”

They stood in silence for about a minute, just looking at each other. If there was a catalogue of Derek’s many facial expressions, Stiles didn’t have it. The looks Derek tended to shoot him varied from _I will kill you now_ to _I am embarrassed you still exist_ to _I will kill you later in your sleep_. The look Derek was giving him now didn’t really fit in that range and, instead, looked disturbingly like that glare his dad had given him after he hid all the socks that one time.

Stiles shifted uneasily under Derek’s gaze, then blurted out, “I haven’t been able to sleep since the game.”

Derek didn’t blink, the weirdo. “You mean since Gerard beat you up. And now you have nightmares about that night, which is keeping you awake. Hence the sleep deprivation.”

Stiles shot him a withering look, because, hey, he hadn’t exactly shared that information. Not all of it, anyway. Sleep deprivation, yes, nightmares, no. “Tactful, you are not.”

Derek blinked a couple times, rapidly, like he was gearing himself up for something, and then he said saying, gently, “That’s not- you’re allowed to react, Stiles.”

“Bite me, Dr. Phil. Except not literally because, with your track record, I’m more likely to become a river monster or a werepoodle.”

Derek didn’t rise to the bait. “Listen. You’re allowed to react, but you’re not allowed to wallow, okay? There’s a difference.”

Stiles laughed a little, rubbing his face. He hadn’t had enough sleep for this. “What?”

“If you’re seeing things, and it’s not supernatural, then you’re sleep deprived. Not casually sleep deprived, but _clinically_ sleep deprived. And chronic sleep deprivation can kill, Stiles.” He looked so earnest about it too.

Look who fired up the Google machine, Jesus Christ. Stiles wanted to laugh so much, but he was afraid he might cry instead.

He shook his head. “I’m not that sleep deprived. I just-”

Derek pushed his advantage. “How much have you slept this last week? How many hours? All the way through.”

“Not counting when you were over.” Stiles pretended to think it over. “Um. Two?”

“Two hours a night?” Stiles’ face sort of… spasmed. Tellingly. _Et tu, Face?_ Derek’s eyes darkened. “Two hours this last _week_?”

“Give or take an hour.” Or two.

“That’s it, we’re going outside.”

Stiles couldn’t say for sure how Derek managed to get him outside. Maybe it was that bone rattling growl. In fact, it was probably the bone rattling growl. Who was he kidding? That thing could peel paint off of the wall. Thank God Derek pitched it low enough so his dad wouldn’t hear. The sheriff of this fine town needed his beauty sleep.

Derek cracked his neck slightly, his eyes closed. Stiles crouched next to his mailbox, keeping one eye on him and one eye on his shoes. Damn those laces.

“Do we really have to do this?” Apparently, Derek wanted to run the insomnia out of him. 

Derek took in a deep breath, his chest expanding visibly. Then he exhaled. “You can run. Or I can chase you.” He opened his eyes. They were glinting a dull red. “Your choice.”

Stiles stood up so fast, he almost brained himself on the mailbox. “So freaking- I have to run during lacrosse practice too, you know!” And he was still sore from that too, thank you very much.

Plus, there was the small fact that Stiles could, like, write a whole book on wolves by now, and one thing he knew was _you don’t run from wolves_. But Stiles supposed that, if Isaac and Boyd and Scott could reign in their instincts enough to avoid taking down and eating a rival lacrosse player, then maybe their alpha could show the same restraint.

Maybe.

It was with much wariness that Stiles took off down the street in a slow jog. And it was okay. Stiles actually liked to run. There was something empowering in it—his feet pounding against the floor.

There was something decidedly less empowering about being followed, though. Derek had no problem keeping his pace—and, seemingly, no inclination to make him run faster. Theoretically, this should have made him the best jogging partner. But he wasn’t because a, he was enforcing this, b, Stiles was exhausted, and c, no one should look that comfortable running in jeans. _No one._

“You don’t need to follow me. I can run by myself.”

Derek looked at him, not even out of breath. “Can you defend yourself?”

Stiles screwed his face up, offended. “Of course I-“

Derek tripped him. Stiles went face-first into someone’s yard, aware of only embarrassment, a stinging knee, and the faintest huff of something that might have been a laugh, if Derek’s laughbox wasn’t tragically broken.

Stiles spat grass out of his mouth. “Oh, it is on, you little shit.” He bounced up and smeared a fistful of grass over that white, white shirt, and bolted in the other direction.

Derek caught him in about ten seconds, but Stiles felt like he had the moral victory in the end. Besides, he’d tasted worse grass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as we've lost, we can always lose more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: flashbacks, talk around off-screen child abuse, arson, unhealthy jealousy and possessiveness, Jackson hates Stiles and vica versa, Stiles is not a saint, Jackson is broken.

It was Saturday and Hill Valley’s mall was overrun with the swell of the weekend rush. It was the only mall worth going to within an hour’s drive, which made it practically vacation to all the tiny minded people Jackson hated. 

Speaking of people he hated, his friends. God. Did he ever need new ones.

They were walking around Jackson on egg shells. They still didn’t know what to do with him. _No one_ knew what to do with him, really. No one not in the know, anyway. Rumors flew like mad, people guessing he’d suffered anything from a stress-induced heart attack to severe anemia to epilepsy. He was treated like a leper, but also sort of like a pop star, which was…

Awful, actually.

Things had improved a bit since that night. Within a few weeks, Jackson went from just hanging with Danny to hanging with Danny and a few friends to hanging with Danny and half of the usual crew. Weirdly enough, the shittier he was to them, the faster they came back. 

Which sucked. He wasn’t on The Team, capital letters, so he didn’t really have anything to do over the summer and Lydia was gone. He only wanted to hang out with Danny and mope, or sit in his room and mope. Or wait until his and Lydia’s timezones matched up so he could Skype at her and mope.

Sense the theme here?

Anyway, he didn’t want to waste his valuable time hanging out with a bunch of dudebros in a crowded mall, but. There. He. Was. Goddamnit.

The general consensus was that they had to go to the sporting store after lunch, so that was where they were going even though it was on the other side of the mall. Whatever. Jackson hung to the back of the group—so far back, he might as well have been by himself.

His utter boredom with anyone who wasn’t Danny meant he was looking at his phone instead of watching where he was going. Super senses or not, he was as surprised as Stiles when he accidentally shoulder checked him in front of the preteen girls’ clothes store. 

His phone fell out of his hand, hitting the floor.

“Wow, _watch it_ ,” said Stiles. The guy reeked of Derek and sickness, though the second seemed to be fading.

Jackson was immediately irritated—by Stiles, by the lurid pink behind him, by the way Brian stopped, five stores ahead, and started looking for where they had lost Jackson. 

Jackson bent over to pick up his phone. “No, _you_ watch it, moron.” He straightened up, raising his eyebrows. “And, for future reference, stay the hell away from me. I have a restraining order on you, remember?”

Stiles looked unimpressed. “Oh right. Poor baby Whittemore, afraid of little old Stiles Stilinski.”

Jackson tipped his head back and laughed, nothing but bitter, biting hatred in the gesture. He had been at the wrong end of too many “even Stiles” statements to react well to Stiles’ presence. 

(Even Lydia’s _dad_ \- No. It was best not to go there.)

Stiles made him feel self-conscious and angry. The scent of Jackson’s alpha on him was just more fuel on the fire. 

Derek rarely had time for Jackson, despite all of his lofty promises. In fact, he’d barely seen Derek at all, outside of their nightly training sessions. And then Stiles came out of nowhere, smelling like the two of them had been rolling around on the floor together.

Jackson bristled. “It’s more like I can’t stand the smell of loser in the morning.”

“It’s the _afternoon_ , dumbass,” Stiles retorted. “But, of course, I can’t expect you to understand the subtle difference, can I? You’re more brute force than brains.” Jackson recoiled. After that disastrous dinner with his parents, that just stung.

Narrowing his eyes, Jackson stepped into Stiles’ personal space menacingly, rejoicing at the slight uptick of Stiles’ heartbeat, the stench of fear. Stiles’ eyes widened noticeably, the white appearing all around his irises.

Slowly, Jackson smirked, enjoying this. Stiles was all mouth nowadays and they both knew it. 

In front of him, Stiles was straightening slightly, trying to make himself look taller, but that only worked on dumb animals, like mountain lions. Not on freaking werewolves.

“You should really show me some respect,” Jackson said quietly. He tapped Stiles once on the chest, hard. “Even _you_ know what kind of damage I can do now.” He ended the threat with a grin.

Before the bite, he always stepped down before physically confronting Stiles. Unlike McCall, Stiles could and would get in a throw down if you looked at him the wrong way, and Jackson? Well, he’d been punched too many times by an enraged Stiles to want to push him too far. But now, after the bite? If Stiles tried to fight him, he couldn’t- he could _never_ win. And Stiles had to know that. 

Something in Jackson, ugly and twisted, wanted to see what Stiles would look like when he was afraid. 

Would the color drain out of his face? Would he reek of fear? Would he step back and try and talk his way out of it? Jackson wanted to see all that and more. 

Jackson forgot Stiles’ biggest weapon was not his fists, but his words.

Stiles smiled bitterly. “But of course I do,” Stiles said slowly, like he was talking to a child. He straightened out Jackson’s collar. “After all, I did watch you crush a guy with a _car_.” 

And, just like that, it was like all the air escaped the room. That wasn’t- he wasn’t- _That wasn’t him._

Jackson staggered away from Stiles, pain knifing through him. It was too close to home, it was too personal, it- if Stiles couldn’t see the difference between Jackson and the Kanima, was there a difference at all?

Stiles’ cold expression said no, there was not. He had to get away.

“You’re such a… heartless little prick, you know that?” Jackson turned away from him blindly, fighting off the clawing, airless feeling in his chest. He was- Was he having a panic attack?

He ran right into his group of friends.

Someone grabbed his shoulders. “What did that little shit say to you?”

Jackson shook off his hand, looking for a gap he could escape through. He met no one’s eyes.

“You want us to beat him up?”

It was like the walls were closing in on him—or was that just his vision? Jackson took in a deep, shuttering breath to no avail. He couldn’t find a gap. He’d make one if they didn’t get out of his way-

Danny pushed through the crowd. “No one’s beating anyone up, you walking stereotype.” He gripped Jackson’s arm, anchoring him. “Jackson, what’s wrong?”

Jackson shook his head and stumbled off to the bathrooms. He gripped a sink until he could breathe again. 

He could hear that mechanic in his head, pleading. He was an asshole, a jock, a shitty mechanic and more, but he hadn’t deserved that. None of them deserved that.

He ran the water and dunked his head under. He contemplated drowning for a second, but rejected the idea. It seemed like such a waste.

When he lifted his head to look at the mirror, he noticed Danny standing right next to him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Danny asked, very carefully not touching him.

“Bad reaction to lunch.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Jackson just snorted and cleaned his hands.

Danny didn’t let it go. “What did Stiles say to you?”

Thank God he hadn’t overheard. Thank God he didn’t have enough to put two and two together.

Jackson focused on washing his hands. “Nothing. He’s just a mouthy little shit.” He washed until the water burned his hands, until the water went cold—but who was he kidding. There was no getting clean, not ever.

-

“You know he’s a ticking time bomb, right?” Stiles was hiding in one of the department stores, ear pressed to his phone. 

And to think the day had started off so well. He and his dad had come all the way to Hill Valley because the mall had the one store in miles that stocked the kind of jeans his dad liked. To make the trip worth it, he was also buying Stiles some clothes for the new year, some that didn’t look like they had been dragged through a meat grinder—his words, not Stiles’.

Stiles was a low fuss shopper and had already picked out his choices. He was particularly proud of the array of color pants he picked out. His dad only vetoed one.

He’d shaken the orange pants at Stiles before putting it aside. “I’m not going to have my son walking around looking like he just Shawshanked his way out of prison. Any other color, please.” 

While his dad hemed and hawed his way over socks, Stiles had decided to check out the food court to see if they had gotten rid that one burger place that violated all those health codes. (They did.) Then he ran into Jackson.

And now Jackson’s friends were roaming around, looking for him. It was strange how the pack of human teenagers seemed somehow more bloodthirsty and cruel than the actual monsters in town. 

Well, the actual monsters in Beacon Hills, at least. Who knew what kind of supernatural menace Hill Valley was hiding? Cthullu could be hiding in the sewers there, for all he knew.

Anyway, human teenagers. Favoring prudence over valor, Stiles had ducked into a department store when he spotted them. Then he slipped into a circle rack of men’s flannel shirts. 

Then he called Lydia.

Stiles was stammering. “I- I- I mean, you know his control is shot to shit, right? You know he’s probably going to hurt someone. It might be you, it might be me, but, the chances are, someone’s gonna get hurt. Probably me. You know?” He batted the fabric around his head. He was being suffocated by flannel. 

Lydia paused for a light intake of breath. And then, clipped, she said, “Do you really want to push the boundaries of our new friendship by trashing on my boyfriend?”

Stiles winced. He waved a hand in the general direction of the ceiling and said quickly, “Look, you like the guy and you must have your reasons.”

“Uh huh,” Lydia said, sounding unimpressed.

“But you also have _eyes_ , so you must have noticed the threat there. Especially now that he’s a werewolf.” Stiles bit his lip to keep himself from spilling out the hundred billion other things that were swarming in his head.

Jackson was a jackass. Jackson was a douchebag. Jackson was not good for her. 

Why couldn’t she see that?

“Stiles.”

“Yes?” Stiles blinked rapidly, listening to her attentively.

“You’re less of a weirdo than I thought you were and you’ve never assumed I was an idiot.” Her voice, distantly fond, suddenly turned hard and uncompromising. “But if you girlfriendzone me, you will no longer exist, understand? Good.”

Then she hung up on him. Stiles stared at the phone without comprehension.

Alright, so maybe Stiles was jealous. Maybe he would never stop being jealous. Maybe Stiles’ motivations regarding Lydia would never be pure. But, damnit, Stiles had a point too. 

Jackson had threatened to break him in the middle of a freaking public mall. That asshole was out of control.

Fuming, he tapped his forehead with his phone four times before flipping it over and opening a text to Lydia. He apologized and then, after a moment, added _I’m just freaked out about the Team Jacob thing because he never needed much of an excuse to go after me before he started drinking the koolaid._

Would she get the code? 

He shook his head at himself. What was he talking about? She was Lydia. Of course she’d get the code. He sent it.

Stiles settled back on his heels, pressing his phone between his lips. The werewolf thing wasn’t all it, though. Just being a werewolf didn’t mean someone was going to hurt someone or do something bad, okay? Scott was a good person. Derek would rather be left alone and Isaac just wanted friends. Even Erica and Boyd needed nudging before they hurt people. 

Jackson, though? Jackson seemed like he was the exact sort of ass to abuse his newfound powers.

Stiles seethed, his hand fisting over his phone. There weren’t words for how much Stiles loathed that guy. He was so full of himself, strutting around town like he was in control, like he owned everything, like he wasn’t using Lydia as his crutch yet again instead of learning how to walk on his own. 

What an asshole.

The curtain of flannel suddenly parted in a shriek of metal on metal. 

His dad looked down at him, one eyebrow raised. “Dare I ask?”

Stiles thought of how he looked—knees practically up to his ears, phone in his mouth—and offered the sheriff a winning smile. 

-

Jackson stayed in the bathroom longer than he should have. Danny stayed with him the entire time, petrified but staunchly supportive. 

Jackson wasn’t expecting that. Danny had tried to ask questions. He tried to find some way he could help. But Jackson shut him down every time, each dismissal ruder than the last. And Danny still stayed. Jackson wouldn’t easily forget that.

So when Danny came to an abrupt stop outside the bathroom door, Jackson immediately snapped to attention.

A few of their friends were standing around none other than Cody Masters, drawn in by whatever he was saying. The guy was charismatic as well as sleazy, and it looked like his demotion from the team hadn’t changed that. Jackson didn’t get the appeal, especially now.

Jackson glanced at Danny. “Why the hell would they let him out on bail?”

“He’s not a flight risk,” Danny said woodenly. Fifty feet away, Cody tipped his head back and laughed.

After a beat, Jackson knocked his shoulder into Danny’s. “You want a ride?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Jackson didn’t bother saying good-bye to anyone else. Neither did Danny.

It was a long ride back. They spent most of it bitching about each other’s taste in music, which Jackson played up a bit. Danny got impassioned when his favorites were dissed, and an impassioned Danny was a distracted Danny. 

They didn’t talk about Cody or Jackson’s breakdown once, but that didn’t mean that the topics didn’t sit at the back of Jackson’s mind and ferment.

Jackson dropped Danny off in front of his house. “I gotta talk to a guy. Get out.”

Used to Jackson’s brusqueness, Danny did just that, closing the door behind. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he turned around and leaned over to look through the open window. “You know, you could talk to me.”

“I really couldn’t,” Jackson said as gently as he could. He drove off. He didn’t take the scenic route. He knew where he was going and, now that he decided to go, he went.

He stopped outside of an apartment complex just on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. It was one of the many housing places that shot up into being without any consideration for supply and demand. There were a hundred apartments there in that complex alone and only about a third were occupied. It had the look of a place that needed to be knocked down. 

133 A was an apartment at the far end of the complex, practically right on top of the back parking lot—an ideal location if the occupant suddenly needed to run.

Jackson parked in a numbered space and went to the apartment. Without any hesitation, he rapped three times on the faded yellow door. Then he waited, knowing the owner was home.

After half a minute, the door opened. There was a pause.

Jackson smirked, opening his arms wide. “Come on, don’t you want to know how I know where you live?”

Derek looked unimpressed. “Why, do you want a prize?” 

He was wide enough to fill the doorway, which meant there was no way Jackson was going inside unless Derek let him. Which also meant that, when Derek stepped aside, moving back into the dimly lit shadows of his place, he totally wanted Jackson inside.

Jackson stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He looked around, noting the dust and the boxes. “This both a step up and a disappointment.”

“You wanna leave? The door is that way.” Derek had his back to Jackson. 

Careful, careful, Jackson reminded himself. Derek wasn’t like other guys.

Jackson took a deep breath and walked up to Derek cautiously. In his dingy kitchen, the guy had a huge table, almost too huge for the area. It was covered to an inch with books, printouts, and photos. Jackson glanced at one corner, noting it was covered with the phone book, of all things. There was a yellow post it note taped to it with a set of names. Ian. Idris. Iago. Ichabod. Imogen. Ingrid. The names just went on and on. And then, under it, a different post-it note had more. Young. Yamaki. Yamaguchi. Yardley. Yablonski. Yarrow. 

“What do you want?” Derek was looking down at a photograph. The quality was crappy and made worse by the magnification, but before Jackson could get a better look at it, Derek flipped it over and shot him an impatient look.

Jackson almost took a half step back before remembering himself. “I need to talk to you.” That came out a little more desperately than he had hoped, but… whatever. It was out there.

Derek stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and turned his attention back to his table. “I’m your alpha, not your therapist.”

“Well, if I told my therapist any of this, she’d have me locked up.” Then she’d turn to Jackson’s parents and tell them about how their success was giving him an inferiority complex and how he’d had to create a fictional universe just to measure up in his head and… bleh. Just bleh. 

Derek straightened up slightly. He took a deep breath and then turned to Jackson, moving one hundred percent of his focus on him. “What did you want to talk about?” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Ugh. Now that Jackson had his attention, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. “There’s a few things that have been bothering me,” he said vaguely, looking at the floor.

He tried to figure out how to tell him how much he hated Stiles without looking like an asshole, but he could think of no way to do it. So he talked about Cody instead and told him about Mr. Mahealani’s case.

The thing is, it did actually bother him. Jackson hadn’t met the kid and didn’t plan on ever doing so, and he was firmly of the opinion that it was not his business and not his family, and was thus unimportant. That being said, the knowledge of it was lingering in a way that Lahey’s asshole father with his asshole ways didn’t, weighing him down.

Jackson explained all this, poorly. 

“Was it because Cody and I are sorta friends?” Not friends in the way that Danny and Jackson were friends, but rather friends in the way that two guys in the same team were.

“Not necessarily,” Derek said, leaning his hip against the table. He’d crossed his arms over his chest when Jackson started explaining, but he never once rushed him through, never once looked impatient. “It’s instinct. Pack hurting pack without reason. It runs counter to your nature as a werewolf.” 

Jackson blinked at him. “Seriously?” Was it seriously that simple of an explanation?

“Werewolves are pack creatures. Omegas are rare and… wrong. Werewolves are instinctively driven to do things that protect and maintain their pack. Attacking a child of their own pack, it’s just…” Derek looked disturbed by it all. He scratched the back of his neck and said abruptly, “Look, humans think it’s wrong too, right? It’s the same way.”

“Not really. Are humans forced to be nice to their family members by their freaking DNA?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I think you’re mistaking instinct with destiny,” he said wryly. Derek gestured at Jackson with one hand. “You have a drive to eat, don’t you? But it doesn’t rule you. You can choose what to eat, how much, how little. When. How. Why. For werewolves, the pack instinct is the same.” He looked at Jackson consideringly. “Although you were bitten a while ago, your powers are just kicking in, so… I think you’re being bombarded by your instincts right now. You’ll learn to ignore them, to compartmentalize.”

Jackson snorted. “Great. So once I get used to this werewolf thing, I’ll go back to focusing on important things, huh?” 

Derek’s expression closed off. He leaned away. Quietly, he said, “You’re… kind of an asshole, Jackson. Just because child abuse doesn’t affect you directly doesn’t mean it’s not important.” He turned his attention back to the table.

It was a dismissal if there ever was one and… it sucked. Their little back and forth there? That was kind of nice. Friendly, almost. And then Derek just stonewalled him, yet again. And it. Pissed. Him. _Off_.

The world was suddenly washed in shades of red. Jackson forced the shift back down as quickly as it came, but not before his sense of smell heightened. 

He blurted out, “Why the hell do you smell like Stilinski?” It was like the fucker was following him around all goddamn day and _he was sick of it_.

Derek didn’t look away from the table. “That’s none of your business.”

Jackson’s mind flashed to the encounter at the mall and he remembered how tired and drained. Smiling nastily, he leaned into the table. “Have you finally got around to _biting_ him yet?” Derek’s eyes flicked towards him, cool and emotionless. 

And Jackson meant it like a threat—really, he did. He wanted Stiles to be hunted down and mauled, like Scott was. But then he remembered the bite was gift and he was suddenly and abruptly jealous. Jackson remembered how grudgingly the bite was given to him after he asked for it, after he _begged_. 

Jackson got in Derek’s face and hissed out, “What, do you think he’s better than me too?” 

Derek frowned at him, more confused than angry. “What are you talking about?”

Jackson’s anger leeched out of him in waves. He realized suddenly what he was doing and backed off. He looked at the claws on his hands. The shame of seeing them there, the humiliation of not being in control? It was enough to force the shift away, leaving him feeling nothing but misery.

Of course Derek liked Stiles. Stiles kept Derek alive. Jackson had only ever put him in danger. He put everyone in danger. Even now. 

Jackson stared at his hands. Especially now.

He shook his head, taking a step back. “Never mind. Just… forget it.” And then, grudgingly, he said, “Sorry.” He turned to leave.

“Jackson,” Derek called out. Jackson stopped and turned around. Derek’s eyes were very wide. He spoke slowly, firmly. “Do _not_ try to jostle for position with Stiles.”

Jackson’s mouth twisted in a hideous parody of a smile. “Why, ‘cause I’ll lose?”

Derek’s gaze was steady. “It will be the worst mistake you’ve ever made in your life, and you’ve made plenty.” Jackson flinched at the reminder. “Don’t do it. Just… leave him alone.”

Jackson took a couple deep breaths. When he felt in control, he looked up and gave Derek a sharp nod. “Sure thing, bossman.” 

Jackson slammed the door on the way out.

-

Stiles went from not seeing Derek for weeks to seeing Derek every night when they went out for a run. It was weird, but what was weirder still was how Derek got all bent out of shape when Stiles suggested running alone. He went on and on about continuing threats still continuing and how Stiles shouldn’t let his guard down ever.

Stiles supposed that was sort of confirmation that no one found Gerard, and, boy, was that nightmare fuel.

Stiles found himself not entirely minding, though. The late night jogs on top of the grueling summer practices was just enough to make him pass out every night on his bed. He’d say he was too tired to dream, but that wasn’t necessarily true. He just went back to sleep after.

But time healed all wounds, it seemed. The nightmares were lessening in intensity. Stiles was walking around with more energy than ever. And, while Scott seemed preoccupied with class (and Isaac freaking Lahey), Derek was around more, and that? That was sort of nice? Under the right circumstances, Derek was sort of playful. Of course, his brand of playful meant Stiles ate a lot of grass, but… it was nice to see the guy laughing, for once.

Stiles was dancing around the point. Okay. Here was the rundown again: sleep deprivation, almost gone. Lingering trauma, almost scabbed over. Day-to-day distractions, at optimal levels.

Hallucination? Still present. 

Still. Freaking. Present.

Stiles pulled at his hair. He just… didn’t know what to do at this point. He so wanted it to be something normal, something he could deal with. 

Stiles spun around in his chair twice, frustrated, before he caught himself on his desk. Okay, it could still be something normal, like a mental disorder, but was he really that fortunate? The Stilinskis didn’t exactly have a history of that sort of thing—and, boy, was that awkward to ask about.

“Okay, say it out loud,” he said quietly to himself. He flattened his hands against his table. “I am being stalked by an unknown supernatural entity of unknown and possibly malevolent intent.” 

There, was that so hard?

Oh god. He was being stalked by an unknown supernatural entity of unknown and possibly malevolent intent.

Stiles vibrated in place for a moment before he flung himself at his phone and then downstairs to their living room.

Unlike Scott, Stiles didn’t have the vet on speed dial, and, since he didn’t want to answer any questions, he couldn’t just ask his buddy for the number. That was the only reason he had their house’s dusty yellow pages flipped open over his knees. 

Deaton didn’t have an online presence at all, which was sort of freaky. Not even a badly formatted website extolling the many virtues of his vet clinic.

Stiles pressed his finger to the small print in the book in from of him and dialed the number with his other hand. 

The phone was picked up after the third ring, which Stiles wasn’t expecting. He flailed, knocking the book to the ground before blurting out, “Deaton? Alan? Uh, Doc?”

There was a pause. “I think we’ve established who I am, Stiles,” Deaton said, but not unkindly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“What? No. I just-”

“Did you want to make one?”

Stiles made a face. “No, I don’t have any pets. Look this-” He pulled his free hand through his hair, tugging on it briefly. It was growing out a bit, just enough to make him look like a startled tribble. “This is about what happened a while ago. At your clinic? You know, powder to the face, seeing what shouldn’t be seen and all that?”

“Oh. Yes. What of it?”

Stiles sighed. “So, on the way home, Scott and I got in an accident.” Stiles grimaced slightly, because that wasn’t entirely true. “Or, more like, we got next to an accident and… somebody died, and I was wondering…” He cleared his throat nervously, licking his lips. “Would that have affected anything?”

There was a long pause. “ _Has_ it affected anything?”

“Hey, I asked first.” 

Deaton sighed at him. “It shouldn’t have. Did you see the ghost of the deceased?”

Stiles scratched his jaw. “Uh, no?”

“Hm, yes. That is unsurprising. You rarely do so soon after death.”

The hair on his arms started standing up a bit. Crap. Stiles swallowed a couple of times. “So if, by some chance, the ghost was there and I broke the cardinal rule of eye contact, what then?”

Deaton hesitated for a minute. Then, carefully, he said, “Stiles-“

“I need to know all the different scenarios that could have-” Stiles sucked in a huge breath, almost choking on it. Then, tensely, he said, “Just. It’s important.”

“Death is a… traumatic event. A newly formed ghost wouldn’t react to eye contact. They wouldn’t know it’s not done. So… no. It would not have affected anything.”

Stiles leaned back on the couch. “And an older ghost…?”

“They would know it’s not done, but whether or not you’d be affected is entirely up to their discretion.”

“I wouldn’t even see an older ghost,” he guessed.

“Well, you wouldn’t see a ghost, new or otherwise, once the powder wore off,” Deaton said. “Even if they followed you home, you wouldn’t know it until you couldn’t find your car keys.”

Stiles made a face at the wall. “That’s… creepy.”

Deaton made an agreeable noise and said, “Don’t worry about it. Ghosts tend not to be interested too much in what the living are up to. They have social lives too.”

Stiles blinked rapidly at that. “O… kay?”

“If you touched it, on the other hand, that’s an _entirely_ different scenario.” Deaton’s voice deepened slightly, becoming more serious. “You see, that powder induces a higher state of mystical arousal. It allows for your senses to be heightened—not so much like werewolves or things like that. A werewolf’s heightened senses are comparable to giving a human a telescope. In this case, the powder is comparable to giving a human a _microscope_. With the powder, you are effectively tuning into things in your general area that you would not normally notice, like you would not normally notice the bacteria on your skin.” 

Gross. Stiles shifted the phone to his other ear, grasping for a pen and paper to start writing this down. His heart was pounding fast in his chest and he dared not look outside.

Deaton continued. “But taking the powder lights you up, so to speak. You get noticed. I’ve a colleague who compares it to donning on a suit of lights in a pitch dark room. But imagine those lights are extensions of yourself that you have thrown out there and that, when you’re done, you reel them back in, like nets in boat.” He paused, and then said, with emphasis, “When you touch something, you’ve tangled them inside of your net. When you’re done and you reel them back in, they’re attached to you. They’re _stuck_. And, in most cases, a stuck ghost is an angry ghost. Because they are literally trapped up inside of you, they’re visible to you, and only to you. You’re connected.”

“That’s scary,” Stiles whispered.

There was a moment of silence. And then, clearly trying to reassure him, Deaton said, “Well, it’s usually a misunderstanding—and they do get that, to a point. Honestly, ghosts are fairly easy to untangle, and even easier convince to go away. It’s other things I worry about.”

Stiles’ pen paused on the paper. “Other things?”

“Oh my, yes. Demons, wraiths, things we don’t even have names for,” Deaton said. “There are many awful, terrible creatures that lay just beyond our senses, Stiles. That is why I told you to take the greatest caution with your gaze. Ghosts will generally ignore you if you make eye contact, but these other things? They do not like to be looked at.” He paused, and then said quietly, “They like it even less when they are touched.” 

Because then they were stuck.

Stiles dropped the pen. He held a hand over his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts on this. Finally, he said, “So. Hypothetically speaking, if I was dosed up with that powder again, how do I tell the ghosts from the other things?”

“I thought that would be obvious. Ghosts look like humans. The others do not.”

Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, feeling dizzy. He pushed himself up from the couch and walked to the nearest window, shoving the curtains out of the way.

Across the street, the dog was resting its head on its oversized paws. It looked up at Stiles after a beat, its pale eyes glimmering with a hint of that magnesium flash.

“Stiles?” Deaton inquired, sounding concerned.

“Thanks. That was super informative,” Stiles said woodenly and hung up. He braced his hands against the window.

“What in the world am I going to do with you?” he asked quietly. Slowly, as if it could hear Stiles’ voice, the thing’s tail started to wag.

-

Jackson was two weeks into his summer vacation. Only two weeks, but he couldn’t think of it like that. Instead, all he could think about was that it was two weeks since that (horrible, awful) semester ended, two weeks since everything supernatural finally settled down, two weeks since Lydia left.

He was not pining. He was not. He was Jackson freaking Whittemore—he was incapable of pining.

And yet…

Jackson found himself looking at the screen of his cell phone, his contact information for her. Her picture. The one she gasped out loud at and fought to delete. Because it was honest, it was Lydia, slightly vacant eyed as she worked through her Calculus homework, idly twirling a strand of her hair around a pencil. 

She’d looked up, registering the artificial shutter close, and then flushed with mortification. When he refused to delete it, she tackled him off the couch. 

No one got their homework done that night. She drew a tramp stamp on his back with permanent marker. He’d put gum in her hair. They broke a vase. She’d laughed, loud and unrestrained, when he tripped over a chair to escape her and her water hose.

They always had the most fun when no one was watching.

Somehow, without him knowing it, she’d changed from someone he could have fun with to someone he could be friends with to someone he couldn’t be without.

Giving up, Jackson called her, figuring she’d at least want to hear about the big summer pool party Danny was throwing at his house. She had this thing about wanting to know everything “important” that was going on well before it was going on. She hated being out of the loop, so Jackson figured she’d appreciate his attempt.

“Oh, Stiles already told me,” she said breezily, then asked him how his training with Derek was going. Jackson couldn’t immediately respond. In the past, he’d be pleased how interested she was in what he was doing, but, right now, one phrase kept repeating his head.

_Stiles already told me. Stiles already told me. Stiles already told me._

Waffling around the phone, trying to save himself from losing his dignity, he made a hard decision only to be beaten to the punch by someone who didn’t have any dignity at all. Who didn’t care what such a gesture made him look like. 

And why would he? There was so much _good_ to look at. Stiles the good student, Stiles the good investment, Stiles the good person. The scholar, the saint, the hero.

Fuck. That. Guy.

Jackson slept poorly that night. A turbulent dream had him shooting out of bed at three in the morning, sobbing out “I’m sorry, oh God, I’m so sorry-” as bone gave under his grip and light faded out from dark brown eyes.

In the cover of darkness, he cried with helpless, frustrated guilt of it—because although Mr. Lahey probably deserved it, the rest of them were just kids. Kids and cops.

He turned people into orphans. The idea that he’d made someone as miserable and fucking warped as he was enraged him. He shoved his fist into his table. Miserably, he thought about the nights he’d coveted the bite, the nights he’d begged for it, the night he finally got it. 

Jackson covered his face as dawn approached. He should have never asked. He wished he never asked.

-

By the time Danny’s party rolled around, Jackson’s mood hadn’t improved at all.

He moodily avoided people for a full hour before slinking over to Mr. Mahealani, who was manning the grill. After a beat, the cheerful man asked him about the swim team and how prospects looked for the next year, what classes he planned to take next term—offering his own experiences in those classes when Jackson grudgingly admitted to some concern.

Not for the first time, Jackson wished he was a Mahealani, not a Whittemore.

“Oh, great. They did come,” Jackson mumbled to himself, irritated. He’d just noticed McCall and Stiles walking into the yard like hopeful puppies.

He was hoping McCall was still sulking over the flight of his girlfriend and that, out of solidarity, Stiles would stay at home too. No luck there, it seemed.

Across the pool, Danny lit up at the sight of them and walked over, an extra bounce in his step. Jackson shook his head at that. As usual, Danny had no taste. His last boyfriend was a douchebag, his last crush was a psychopath, and his current interest was a goddamn werewolf.

“Those two are good friends, aren’t they?” Danny’s dad asked, waving his spatula. “I’ve known those boys since we moved here, and I have never seen one without the other.” 

Jackson glared across the pool. Stiles was gesturing wildly at the sun, then at his body. The loser was wearing a hoodie over his swimming trunks. 

Jackson’s hearing sharpened.“…do you want to see lobster Stiles? Because that can happen, Scott.”

“I always did think you were crabby.” McCall suddenly had the bright, sunny smile of someone impressed with himself.

Stiles shot Scott an incredulous gape before turning on his heel and walking away. “Wow, I need new friends.”

“What? It was funny.”

“Hi, Scott,” Danny greeted.

Scott stopped following Stiles to face Danny. “Hi, Danny! Thanks for inviting us.” He started to say something else, but then some asshole did a cannon ball in the pool, and it was like a bomb went off. Jackson flinched badly, trying to tone down his senses with little success.

His hearing fluctuated wildly—shifting in a seat, water lapping at the edge of the pool, a heartbeat underwater. Then, just as he reeled in his hearing, his sense of smell went wild. Sweat and sunscreen, hamburgers and ketchup. He found himself lingering for a long while on Danny’s aftershave as his sense of smell calmed down.

But the burning smell didn’t go away—and it didn’t smell like grease and cooked meat either. 

Finally, when Jackson was absolutely sure he was flashing neither fang or claw, he turned to Danny‘s dad and asked, “Is something on fire?”

-

Oh, come _on_.

Stiles had barely arrived and they were already being told to leave! This time, thankfully, not by a jury of their more popular peers, but instead by a group of perplexed firefighters as they drained the pool to wipe out the sudden, but raging fire by the end of the property. The Mahealanis’ pristine white fence was now blackened and cracking from where the fire had advanced on the backyard, briefly, before being beaten back into the surrounding woods.

“Thank god,” Stiles muttered, shifting on his bare feet restlessly. The group of them had retreated to a neighbor’s house at the end of the street. They would have gone further, but the firefighters seemed to have the fire almost put out already. 

“Thank Jackson,” Scott corrected. “He’s the one who noticed.”

Stiles made a face. He looked to the left. Danny and his dad stood at the end of the driveway, looking lost and sad. They had their eyes on their house, trying to peer past the huge fire truck to see what was happening. Danny’s hair was still wet from the pool and his arms were crossed high on his chest. He looked so confused. 

Then a shiny black car raced around the corner, coming to a screeching halt in front of Danny’s house. A tiny woman in a pressed suit tumbled out of the car, leaving it running. She started to charge the house, fighting off the hold of her assistant.

“Mom?” Danny called out, voice wavering. Mrs. Mahealani turned on her heel. When she saw them, her face crumpled. 

The Mahealanis rushed each other, colliding into a gigantic, three-way hug in the middle of the street. Ears burning, Stiles looked away, focusing on the air, which smelled like smoke and ash, and was full of the chatter of nosy, concerned neighbors. 

When Stiles looked back, Danny’s mom was white knuckling her husband’s shirt. Danny kissed her cheek.

“Yeah. Okay. Thank Jackson,” Stiles muttered under his breath. Because Stiles had chosen to be quiet, didn’t he? Didn’t he decide to stick his head in the sand and ignore what he saw? Didn’t he go in full on denial mode after Deaton’s call because there was no way did his mystical net of not-awesome trap some sort of demon/wraith/cthullu ghost dog? Nope. Didn’t happen. And a ghost dog most certainly did not bark at him furiously from beyond the fence, right where the fire approached.

Holy shit. New thought? Could- could demon/wraith/cthullu ghost dogs cause fires?

Stiles didn’t have time to follow that thought through, as the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department chose that moment to show up. Most of the deputies that stepped out of their cruisers were new and unfamiliar to him, but there was at least one he recognized.

Deputy Boyd was already squinting at the group of them suspiciously, as if she expected to find the source of the fire with one of them. Her stern expression made her think of her son, chained up in a basement with electricity shooting through his body.

Stiles turned away from her and walked directly into his dad. Stiles backed up immediately, hands up. “Whoa there. Sup?”

His dad looked surprised. “You. You’re here.” Stiles wordlessly pointed to his very conspicuous Jeep at the end of the road. Who’s the crack investigator now? His dad sorta flushed.

Stiles frowned at him. “I told you I was going to the party, right?” His dad made a complicated face. Unfortunately, Stiles was fluent in Dad Face. His heart sank. “You didn’t believe me?”

His dad had a guilty expression. He looked around and then pulled him away from the group.

“I didn’t… not believe you, I just…” His dad was waffling. “I thought there was more to it than that. You know what, never mind.”

Stiles shuffled back and forth, unhappy. It was bad enough when he had to lie to his dad, but when his dad just started assuming he was lying about everything, well… that stung. That stung badly.

His dad looked pained. Then, remembering his job, he asked reluctantly, “Did you see anything?”

“No. I didn’t know there was a fire until people started screaming.”

There was an awkward pause. And then- 

“Where are your shoes?” the man asked, sounding less like Sheriff Stilinski and more like Dad.

Stiles looked down, flexing his bare feet against the sidewalk. His shoes were in the Mahealanis’ backyard along with everyone else’s. His dad just shook his head and marched Stiles back to his car. He had an extra pair of shoes in there—old ones. Old ones that were once Stiles’, in fact.

His dad stood over him until he put them on. Stiles wanted to tell him that he wasn’t eight anymore, but, on the other hand… his feet kind of hurt. He put them on. They were too small and bit his toes.

Satisfied with Stiles’ obedience, the sheriff pulled away a bit, checking on things. They were coordinating their efforts with the local fire department. The sheriff was the first to know when the fire was completely beaten back and the first to go on scene.

Stiles quickly followed him. He’d long been aware that, if he lifted his chin up slightly and looked like he belonged there, most people tended to leave him alone.

Stiles stayed silent and unobtrusive until his dad started talking to a firefighter about accelerants.

“Wow, wow—arson?”

Both his dad and the firefighter shot him withering looks. He smiled winningly at them even as they parted and his dad grabbed the back of his neck. “Could you have possibly said that any louder?” he hissed quietly with a sigh.

Stiles blinked several times. “Possibly.” The firefighter rolled her eyes and walked away. Once she was gone, he poked his dad’s side about thirteen times in quick succession. “So? So?”

His dad gave him a fierce look, but Stiles’ gaze was fiercer. He folded like a cheap chair. _Yes_.

His dad let him go, but not before putting one finger in his face. “Step where I step or you will be grounded until you’re married, that understood?”

Stiles shot off a snappy salute. “Sir, yessir!” 

Stiles’ dad sighed and starting walking. Stiles bounced after him, happy to help. “I can’t tell you about an ongoing case, but I will tell you one thing—this was no accident. Someone deliberately set this up next to their fence.” His dad shook his head. “It probably wouldn’t have gotten so bad, except we’ve been having those dry winds recently…”

“Unlucky,” Stiles said with a nod.

“Exactly.” His dad stopped and put his hands on his hips, clearly thinking. He turned and looked at Stiles. “Can you think who might have been targeted?” Stiles loved it when his dad gave up all pretenses and started brainstorming with him.

Stiles scrunched up his nose. “Maybe his mom? She is a politician.”

The sheriff shot him a baleful look. “Conspiracy theories, Stiles, really?”

“What’s that saying… it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you?”

His dad rolled his eyes. “I’m more inclined to think that this was just some kid who was ticked off that he wasn’t invited to your little shindig.” He started walking through the burnt foliage again, eyes scanning the ground and still muttering to himself. “God knows you kids have some of the weirdest, most messed up priorities…” 

Stiles stopped in place, legs stiff. The dog was there, four feet to his left, just sitting there. Its eyes had been flashing like crazy when Stiles saw him beyond the fence, but now? That white light was completely gone. The dog, with its pale eyes and shaggy fur, would have almost looked normal. If, you know, someone else besides Stiles could see it. 

“Stiles?” his dad prompted him, looking at him with a concerned frown. When Stiles just stood there, he closed the distance between the two of them, eyeing Stiles like he was a live grenade.

Stiles forced a smile and shook his head. “Sorry. Thought I saw something.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff settled his arm on Stiles’ shoulders companionably. “Too bad it wasn’t the arsonist. That would have been my fastest case closed yet.”

When the sheriff tried to guide Stiles away, Stiles resisted ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed slightly, caught by a ridge, a dip, a suspicious shadow on the floor. “Dad. Is it just me, or are those foot prints?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: As much as we've lost, we can always lose more.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: aftermath of an attack on an OC (no gore), Derek’s a half-hearted bully, exposition, fake mythology, ignoring the botched Lycaon story of season 3 because I like mine better. The plot thickens!

Derek’s pride fought his common sense for a long time. It told him that he’d figure things out on his own soon enough, that he didn’t need help, that the answer to the mystery was lingering just at his fingertips. As he had to do was extend his reach a little further…

But his pride had taken substantial blows in the last few months, so, far sooner than he would have thought, he caved to his common sense. He needed help.

He didn’t go to Deaton. The vet, for all he was supposed to be a friend, had a pretty significant role in Derek’s body being used against him that night in the warehouse. His family’s old advisor hadn’t even given him a hint about the unpleasantness on the horizon. Afterwards, he was infuriatingly unapologetic. Even if he wasn’t, Derek couldn’t forgive that easily anyway, common sense be damned.

He went to Stiles instead. He didn’t trust the kid, but he had faith in his own ability to intimidate Stiles into silence, if need be. This was not something he wanted Scott involved with.

Already in a bad mood, Derek parked two streets up and walked the rest of the way. His pace quickened at the lingering scent of smoke, his hackles raising, but, wherever the fire was or had been, it wasn’t in this neighborhood.

Derek waited, hidden, until the sheriff left, a wisp of smoke following him. Derek closed his eyes against the bad, bad memories. But, if there was anything he knew for sure, it was that things always had the potential to get worse.

Still, though, he hesitated. Maybe he could come back tomorrow. A week from now. 

His resolve hardened. No, now. Weakness was for later.

He let himself in the back door and made the climb up to Stiles’ room.

Stiles heard Derek’s footsteps. His voice rose from his room, cranky and irritated. “Dad, you’re going to be late and-” Derek pushed open the door. 

The great bodily flinch Stiles made was gratifying, as was the strangled squeak.

Stiles was visibly alarmed. “Oh my _God_. I was going to sleep,” he bleated, clutching his blankets to his chest. His heart betrayed the lie.

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not here for that.” They had one rule. IF Derek came and Stiles was asleep, Derek would give him a reprieve for the night. If Derek came and Stiles was awake, Derek would run the hyperness out of him. So far, Stiles had been more awake than not and the nights they had together were easily the best part of Derek’s day.

Derek fought back a smirk. Payback was a bitch.

Stiles stared at him distrustfully for a moment, clearly wondering if it was a trap. When no trap came, he smiled sunnily. “Oh. Good.” Stiles threw the blanket off of him, radiating smug satisfaction. “Because I’m not very sleepy.” 

Derek sighed dramatically. He wanted to run the energy out of him on principle. 

He sat on Stiles’ computer chair, sliding a hand across the table. He was stalling, but not because he didn’t want to ask for help. It wasn’t that at all. 

This place was calm. This place was safe. This place was an untouched oasis in the middle of a sand storm. Nothing bad ever happened in Stiles’ room, forced exhibitionist stripping aside.

Stiles gazed at him silently, not pushing. That made it easier, somehow. 

“I need your help with researching something.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “What, you don’t have any other token Ravenclaws waiting in the wings?” He started smirking. “Oh, wait, is that too recent of a reference for you, because I could-” Stiles’ sentence ended in a hitch of breath when Derek abruptly scraped his claws against the top of the table. 

Then, propping his head on his chin, he looked back at Stiles, letting his eyes redden. It was a dominance thing—for werewolves and for humans. Humans liked extended eye contact even less than betas—this, he knew from personal experience. Despite that experience, Stiles was staring at him right back, eyes huge and breath held in his chest.

After a minute, Derek realized how idiotic this was, how it must have looked. He was trying to cow a human the way he’d cow a beta—and, instead of being scared, the human was _fascinated_.

Knowing Stiles’ heart was going double time, though, Derek stared at him a little longer before looking away, letting his claws fade away. “My generation was Harry Potter,” he said. “Yours was Twilight. Remember that.”

The wounded twist of Stiles’ face was worth it. “Low blow, dude,” Stiles muttered.

Suppressing a smirk, Derek leaned back into the chair. “I found something,” he said, getting down to business. “I’m getting nowhere with it.”

“Maybe that’s because you decided to spend your nights playing the big bad wolf to my red riding hood?”

Derek ignored that. “The alpha pack, they’re up to something. I went in their den recently to check things out, but I’ve hit a wall. I was hoping you could help me find someone whose initials are I.Y. and-”

“Wait a minute, rewind.”

Derek shot him an impatient look. “What.”

Stiles vibrated in place for a moment before blurting out, “Who’s the alpha pack.”

There was a long, awkward pause where they just stared at each other. 

“I thought Scott told you,” Derek said in an accusing rush. He’d told Scott right away. When Derek and the others found the mark on his old house, he’d fought with the conflicting desires of keeping Scott out of things so he could be a normal teenager, and reeling him back in so they could present a united front to the alphas. He’d decided on a compromise—let Scott and his people know so they could prepare themselves.

So why didn’t Scott let his people know? 

Stiles looked pissed. “Oh my God, that’s no excuse.” Stiles rooted around his bed until he found a sock. Then he threw at Derek. “You have my number, you dick! You could have told me yourself.” 

The sock bounced off Derek’s shoulder. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter,” Derek said impatiently. “The point is there’s an alpha pack in town-”

“And it’s a pack full of alphas?” Stiles asked with mock shock and wide eyes.

Derek bared his teeth slightly. “Yeah. Now you know everything I know. Happy?”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed his skinny arms over his chest. “My judgment is pending,” he allowed. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Derek said scathingly, “they’re up to something. They haven’t done anything yet, but-”

“But they’re out to get you,” Stiles mumbled, looking distracted.

“What?”

Stiles blinked at him. “Nothing. Look, what thing were you talking about? Is it something I can look at?” When Derek nodded, Stiles made grabby hands.

“They’ve set up shop in the warehouse where Jackson died. They had two boxes with them, and on that box, there were two initials. I.Y.” At the continued grasping of Stiles‘ grabby hands, Derek reluctantly pulled out his phone and started looking for the picture. “The initials were drawn in alpha blood, Stiles.”

Stiles crept slightly closer. “Their blood?”

Derek paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Old blood, ancient blood. I’ve… I’ve never smelled blood this old before. It’s more magic than blood cells at this point.” He found the file. “Here, I took a picture.” Rolling the chair closer to the bed, Derek handed off his phone.

Stiles glanced at it and immediately handed it back. “Yeah, no. Those aren’t initials.”

Derek stared at him blankly. “What?”

“They’re numbers. The number thirteen, to be exact.” Stiles flipped over on his stomach, nearly kicking Derek in the head. “Those Greeks and their silly numbering systems…” He hung over the side of the bed, feet towards Derek, as he fished for something under his bed frame.

“You’ve seen something like this before.”

Stiles sat up, flushed and almost beat red, but triumphant. He was hugging a giant book to his chest. “Oh yeah. In Deaton’s Big Book o’ Werewolf.” He said the last in an impossible to place accent and grinned, but when Derek just stared at him blankly, he cleared his throat and jumped right into the explanation, clutching the book to him defensively. “A little bit before the Gerard thing, Deaton gave Scott this book, right? He told him to read it, but, hey, the book’s in Ancient Greek or something. At that time, Scott wouldn’t even read books in English, so he gave it to me.” Stiles looked down at the book, pursing his lips. “And he sorta forgot about it, so…”

“That was stupid of him,” Derek muttered, bitter.

“Yeah, well…” Stiles made a face. He clutched the book to his chest a little tighter and then said, quietly, “I kind of got the feeling that Deaton was trying to push Scott towards you? Like, if Scott couldn’t read the werewolf stories, he’d go to an actual werewolf to help? Get the story from the, uh, horse’s mouth?”

“Only Scott hates me and you always do Scott’s homework.” There was no heat in the accusation, only resignation.

“I’m not saying that it didn’t backfire,” Stiles said a bit sulkily and opened up the book. He started rapidly turning pages. “Anyway, there are neat pictures in here. Like this one.” Strangely, he snickered, and looked up. “Look, it’s three wolf moon! It’s funny because-” Stiles got a good look at Derek’s face and decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Ahem. Okay, thirteen.” Stiles flipped through some more pages before finding what he was looking for. “I’ve been trying to translate, but the only thing I got down is the numbers.” He flipped the book around and extended it to Derek. “You see, this? This is the-”

Once Derek saw the picture, he snatched the book out of Stiles’ hands. The left page was a huge block of foreign, incomprehensible text, but the right page? It was a picture, a minimalist drawing of a huge, towering snarling beast of a wolf. Around him were thirteen silhouetted figures with red eyes, arms extended and claws out. 

“The Warning of the Thirteen,” he muttered, feeling almost winded. How could he have forgotten?

Stiles blinked at him. “Hm?” 

“It’s…” Derek was thrown, both by the boy’s proximity and by the revelation on his lap. The revelation won and he looked down. “It’s just a story.” But there it was. Right next to the block of symbols was the exact drawing Derek had seen on the alpha pack’s boxes. 

What he thought was a circle was actually a shield, the line a spear. Offense and defense. Attack and protect—the purpose of pack. The purpose of _alphas_ —the alpha pair, in particular.

Derek’s shoulders rounded defensively. It was a fairy tale—a bloody fairy tale at that. Like most fairytales, it taught them their origins and it taught them a lesson. In their family, it was recited to remind them to maintain balance between their humanity and their wolf—to not feed one over the other. That pack was more important than anything. That humans can be predators as much as werewolves.

Derek apparently hadn’t learned that lesson well. 

A bit dazed, Derek looked up to see Stiles practically twitching with impatience. “Well? What’s the story?”

“I have to go,” Derek said distantly. He abruptly stood, moving away from Stiles, but his hands lingered on the book, clutching at it desperately. His parents had one just like it before the fire. It had been written in French, and its borders and blank spaces were marked up with crayon and pen from multiple generations of unruly, easily bored children. It was charcoal now.

Derek forced himself to let the book go, putting it page down on Stiles’ bed. It was Deaton’s, after all.

Then he turned around to leave. 

“What? Come on. Not even the Sparknotes version?” Stiles sounded wounded, deprived—like Derek was a bully holding his toys just out of reach.

And Derek? Derek was just… just so irritated, right? No one wanted to know about their stories, no one wanted to know about their mythology. Not Scott, not Isaac, not Erica or Boyd or Jackson. Out of everyone he was in contact with, why was it that only the human was interested?

“No,” he growled, glaring Stiles down. And that was that.

Well, not exactly. 

He left the room, _intending_ for that to be that, but Stiles followed him out of the house. He smelled of distress and confusion, but was quiet, as if trying to think of something to say. Derek ignored him as best as he could, walking into the street to get to his car.

Stiles cleared his throat and mumbled, “Did I… Did I at least help?” 

Derek looked back at him over the hood of his car, startled at that. Stiles wasn’t looking at him, but at the ground. He smelled fragile and human and lost, but mixed up with that and the smell of grass and neighborhood was the smell of alpha. Stiles was a target too, wasn’t he?

Derek’s teeth grinded together slowly. Then, quietly, defeated, he let out a soft sigh. “Sparknotes version?” 

Stiles lit up, bouncing forward and across the street. Derek suppressed the urge to growl. Irritating little brat.

“Aw, yeah.” Stiles vibrated with tentative, eager attention and tried, badly, to hide it. “Or, you know, whatever.”

Derek hated him so freaking much.

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s a myth. Stop me if it starts sounding familiar.” Derek dropped his head a little and sighed. And then, curtly, he said, “There was a king and a prince and a massive party.” He leaned against the hood of his car. “A girl came to the party, fell in love with the prince, and the prince with her. Unfortunately, the king fell in love with her too.” He spread his hands slightly. “But, the thing is, this girl was a powerful hunter from the borderlands of the king’s kingdom. She announced her intentions to marry the prince.”

Stiles grinned at that. “Whoo, girl power.”

“Shut up.” Derek took a deep breath, trying to remember the details. “The king devised a series of tasks for her to prove her prowess as a hunter so that she could marry the prince, his son. She did well, of course.” As she should. “The last task involved a feast. She had to identify what kinds of meat were on the table. As it so happens, one of the types of meat was human—was the prince, actually. The man she had fallen in love with. When she found out, she was… devastated.” Broken was the right word. 

Laura told this story better.

Derek shook himself out of his thoughts. “The king announced that she had proved herself worthy of a king and started their marriage arrangements. Her father spirited her away that night, vowing to everyone who would hear that, by the time the sun rose the next day, the king would resemble the beast that he was within. The next day, he did.”

“Lycaon,” Stiles blurted out, bouncing a little on his heels. Why was he asking Derek about the story if he already knew it? “We’re talking about Lycaon, king of Arcadia, right? The first werewolf.” 

Derek recoiled. “He wasn’t-” He was trying really hard not to be offended. Stiles didn’t know any better. He only knew the human story. “He wasn’t a werewolf. He was a monster. The first werewolf—werewolves. They came later.”

Stiles stepped up closer to the other side of the car, mirroring Derek’s position. “How?”

Derek sighed heavily. “The king went around and bit a bunch of people. The bite usually killed them, but a few survived and turned. They were like him—more monster than man, but fortunately…” Derek paused, then said, carefully, “My mother said they were sterile. Their bite didn’t do anything. That limited the spread of the curse, I think.”

“Okay, go on.”

“So the king started rounding up these things—lycans—and they all started causing havoc. They killed a ton of people. Wiped entire cities off of the map. Human armies went after them and managed to kill most of them. Together, they forced the king near the edge of the kingdom in the lands where the girl lived- you remember the girl?” Stiles nodded. “The king did too. He attacked her village in the night and ended up biting her. He killed everyone she knew, including her father, the man who cursed him—and those were the lucky ones. But the bite.” Derek took a deep breath. “With her, the bite was _different_. It didn’t turn her the same way it turned the rest. She didn’t die, but she also didn’t turn into a lycan.”

Stiles perked up at that. “She was immune.” Like Lydia, he didn’t say.

“Yes. And no.” It was important to stress that. “She was the first werewolf. She was the first of the bitten to retain her humanity while turning.”

“The first alpha.”

“Yes, that too. She went around the continent and found others like her. Of them, she chose twelve. That alpha and the other twelve, they turned people into werewolves like them, creating the first betas. The thirteen chosen alphas made packs—large ones. Practically armies. Then they went after the king and his remaining hoard of lycans. It‘s said that every born werewolf can trace their lineage back to one of the survivors of that war.” 

“So they won?”

Derek shrugged. “After a while.” Remembering that this story would make it back to Scott eventually, Derek said carefully, “This story is why born wolves are a hundred percent certain that killing the wolf that made you will not turn you back, as killing Lycaon, the one who started it all, did not turn my ancestors back into humans.”

Derek wouldn’t apologize for blocking Scott from becoming an alpha, but he thought that, maybe if Scott knew his reasoning, Scott would stop being so resentful. Maybe. 

Stiles frowned, clasping his hands together. He took a few minutes. Then his face scrunched up in confusion. “Okay, so this symbol—what does it mean?” When Derek just looked at him, confused at the shift, Stiles said, “I mean, _warning_. That sounds kind of ominous, right?”

Derek looked away from him. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a reminder of the story.” 

“But why have it on a _box_?” 

Derek‘s gaze sliced back to him, eyes narrowing into a glare. “I don’t know. I don’t know a lot, okay?”

Stiles lifted his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay. Touchy.” He let his hands fall, lay flat on Derek’s car. He was leaving behind fingerprints.

Derek sighed, looking down the street. He knew more than he started off with, but also knew less. He had more questions than answers. He just… he just didn’t get it. There was more to that symbol than the story—there had to be. After all, the symbol on the boxes was imprinted with a natural repulsion, an instinct to hide it away. That didn’t happen on accident. It had to be purposeful.

Derek dragged his attention back, settling his gaze on Stiles. The kid looked like he was puzzling over it himself. For a moment, Derek just… watched. They had leaned in near each other as Derek told his story. Derek paused, lingering on the very little space separated them—and it was very little, even if the space was filled up with something as solid as a car. Derek stepped back, pulling his arms off of the car. Stiles did the same, his thoughtful expression turning cautious.

Derek could feel himself flounder a bit. Then, he said, “You’re getting more sleep now, right?” Derek didn’t actually need the answer. Stiles looked healthier. He no longer reeked of that dragging smell of drain and sickness. When Stiles nodded, he pressed, “Are you still seeing things?”

Stiles looked tired suddenly—soul weary than physically weary, for once. “Yeah.”

Derek slid his hands into his pockets, clenched them into fists. “I thought that was the sleep deprivation.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his head self-consciously, eyes darting away. “Me too. Or another thing with- with Deaton, but that should have worn off by now.” Stiles paused. He straightened up slightly, his gaze jerking up from the ground. He blinked several times and said, voice cracking, “I- I think I’m going _nuts_.”

Derek looked down at his feet, uncomfortable because that was his thought too. Initially, anyway. “Or,” Derek hedged, rolling a stone over with his foot.

“Or what?”

Derek looked back up. “Or you’re actually seeing something.” He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like werewolves is the obvious answer either, right?”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment before huffing out a small laugh, shaking his head. “No way, man. Occam’s Razor is the rule that governs my life.”

“You want to know the rule that governs mine?” Derek didn’t wait for an answer. “Murphy’s Law.” Stiles flinched and looked down. A moment later, though, he looked up. There was sympathy there, and understanding, and maybe a bit of an apology. 

Before Derek could decide how to react to that, a howl rose from several houses down. Derek looked down the street, feeling his instincts perk up a bit.

“That’s a husky,” Stiles said unnecessarily. He sounded a little uncertain, though.

“Yeah.” Derek shifted slightly, reminded of himself. Stiles wasn’t one of his betas and certainly not one of his pack. He paused, though, while opening his car door. Stiles gazed back at him steadily. “Be careful.” 

Stiles nodded wordlessly, expression strangely thoughtful, and retreated back to his house.

-

“Your friend Stiles.”

“Hm?” Scott raised his eyebrows, showing he was listening.

“He seems a little bent out of shape right now,” Deaton commented. He opened room 32 of their local motel-notell and gestured for Scott to go inside. The room wasn’t exactly a mess, but it had the sense of both desperation and self-hatred.

Scott had gotten a text in the middle of the night from his boss—a simple request to come outside and wait for his car.

If Deaton had been anyone else, Scott would have thought twice about it. But he trusted Deaton in a way he trusted few adults in his life—absolutely and unquestioningly. So he just did what he was asked and got in the car.

“I need your help with something,” Deaton had told him. And Scott believed him.

So Scott walked into the hotel room, sticking his hands in his pockets. “He’s fine. It’s just stress.” He turned around, watching as Deaton closed the door. When Deaton smiled vaguely, Scott shrugged and started wandering around the room. It was a basic affair—one bed, one side table, one TV and cabinet combo. There was a door to the bathroom and an extra large mirror. The drapes were nearly sheer and the carpet was a dull tan color.

“Stress is never _just_ anything, Scott.”

“We’ve been under a lot of it—and worse than this. This is practically relaxing.” 

Deaton didn’t say anything. 

“Besides, if it’s not real, then it can’t hurt him,” Scott said distractedly, pulling the bedside table drawer open. Yup, Bible.

“That’s not necessarily true.”

“Speaking of things that might not be true.” He turned to face Deaton again. “Can I really sense a ghost?” He didn’t know if he should want to or not, but he figured Deaton would know.

Deaton made a face. “Yes and no.” He paused for a moment, then made a cupping gesture with his hand. “Reality is like an onion. We exist on several layers of reality simultaneously. Depending on our various ranges of sensitivity, we may know all the layers we exist on, or we may only know one.”

Cool, Scott thought. 

“But ghosts?” Deaton shrugged. “Ghosts exist on an entirely separate layer than us. There is no overlap.” Then he smiled. “At least, there is no overlap until an overlap is forced.”

“When a ghost manifests? Or when certain items are used?”

Deaton nodded. “It takes energy. A lot of energy.” He lifted a finger. “For example, manifestation. When a ghost decides to manifest into our reality, it takes a lot out of them. They have to jump from their layer to ours.”

“Like electrons,” Scott realized. They’d just talked about that in class that day, using crowded hula hoops and their peers as examples. 

“Exactly,” Deaton said. “It takes so much energy from them that they may not even have the energy to send a coherent message. If that is what it intended to do. But yes. When it is present in our reality, then, yes, you can sense it.”

“Have you ever… talked to a ghost before?”

“Oh, no. They’re really not that all interested in us,” Deaton said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Derek has, though.”

“Really? Who did he talk to?”

Deaton smiled sadly. “His mother.”

Scott flinched. Suddenly Derek’s reluctance to talk about ghosts was making a whole lot of sense. “Oh God. What did she even say?”

“I think that’s a private conversation. Don’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Scott said, feeling guilty. Forcing himself not to think about it, he said, “So, what do you want me to sniff out?”

Deaton shrugged. “Anything that doesn’t seem to fit.”

“Okay, well.” Scott took a deep breath. “A lot of people have been through here and have done… things.” Blushing, Scott looked at Deaton, but Deaton didn’t seem to want to press him about all the old sex smells, thank God. Scott blocked those out. “There’s lotion, perfume, shampoo. Cleaners. Smokes. Hey, I thought this was the no smoking section!” Deaton just smiled at his indignation.

Scott stopped at the other side of the bed, instincts flaring. Deaton tensed up when he saw where Scott stood.

“Scott?”

Scott stroked a hand down the wall before sliding into an easy crouch. “There’s fear,” he said grimly. “A lot of fear. It’s recent. Like, hours old.”

Deaton crossed the room quickly, glancing at the floor for a moment before looking back at Scott. “What else?”

Scott tipped his head to the side, trying to analyze it. “Something… dry. Reptilian. It’s a very strong smell.”

“I know.” Deaton settled back on his heels, frowning. “I can smell it too.” 

Scott stood quickly. “Then why did you ask me to sniff it out for you?”

“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t imagining things,” Deaton said with a hint of self-deprecation. He leaned against the wall, brow deeply furrowed. Deaton was an intensely introspective person and Scott knew better to bother him when he was trying to figure something out. 

Scott directed his attention back to the floor. The reptile smell seemed to linger in one spot and one spot only. Layers, he thought. Then kanima, because his mind really hated him. But then he remembered that the kanima hadn’t really smelled like anything all.

“The person who rented this room is Samuel Patel,” Deaton said quietly. “He went to the doctor twice in the last week, complaining of hip pain. He had a large contusion on his side that came from a very powerful set of jaws.” Scott’s head shot up at that. “Notice I said contusion, instead of bite. While some teeth did make their mark, there was no penetration of the dermis, so the doctor noted it down as a contusion. You and I both know better.” 

Deaton ran a hand over his head. “He also complained that he was suffering from extreme fatigue. He was very disorientated. He said he was losing track of time.”

“What did they say? The doctors.”

Deaton shook his head. “There was… nothing wrong with him. His blood tests came back normal. His brain waves were typical. He wasn’t even dehydrated. The bite wasn’t even _bleeding_.” Deaton looked at the floor. “They sent him home—or here, rather.” Deaton took in a deep breath and said, wearily, “And then, at 4:32 this morning, someone in a neighboring room complained about a series of thumps and screaming coming from next door. The hotel owner attempted and failed to get Mr. Patel to respond, so he opened his room and…” Deaton petered off and glanced at the floor.

“Is he dead?” Scott asked, hushed.

“Comatose, actually.”

Scott stared at the floor too, then abruptly turned to Deaton. “I don’t get it. What bit him?”

“He woke up with the mark. Doesn’t remember a thing. Didn’t _see_ a thing.”

“So not a werewolf.”

Deaton shook his head. “No. I’ve seen more than my fair share of werewolf bites. This wasn’t one.”

“Then what did bite him?”

“I don’t know.” Deaton’s shoulders hunched slightly. “All I know is that, if this is what I think it is? Then we have bigger problems than a simple alpha pack. You must be ready.”

Scott looked at the floor, his chest squeezing. All that was left of poor Mr. Patel’s struggle was the scent of fear. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

-

Golden light from the street rose up through her hotel window. She leaned against the wall, watching as foot traffic gradually lessened with the darkening hour.

Lydia’s feet hurt from walking across ancient roads and passing under beautiful archways, but it was a dim consideration. She was still in that calm headspace she always fell into in such old, peaceful places. Oh, how she loved architecture—the logic and the sense in it.

Smiling to herself, she thought back on the day’s activities. She knew from previous vacations that such ancient sites were never adequately depicted by images or stories. Being there was something you had to do to truly understand the structure, to understand the enormity of it all.

Her smile dimmed. Enormity. That’s the thing. It made her feel small, but also settled, somehow. Serene. These were buildings almost too big for the human imagination, and yet they were still built by human hands, designed by human brains. Their very existence depended on the very beings they so greatly humbled. 

If human builders could make such mind bending structures, then surely she could learn to deal with a couple of werewolves.

Werewolves. Really? Ugh. She focused so much on the joy of having Jackson back, and yet shunned the vehicle of such a miracle--ignore the causal links, even, preferring to enjoy the event in a vacuum. But it didn’t exist in a vacuum, did it? 

Lycanthrope. Wolf man. Loup garou. Skin changers. Vulkodlaks. It seemed like every human civilization had a word for it. But science pointed fingers at psychiatric or genetic disorders. 

Lydia couldn’t help but feel like science had failed her—had, in fact, actively _lied_. It was a bitter feeling. But it wasn’t always, to be honest. When she wasn’t thinking about bites and claws and being hunted down like prey, the idea of a new species was interesting and exciting. It made her fingers itch for a pen, a keyboard. Someone had to document it, to try and cram its jagged ends into the puzzle that was current understanding of life. 

The thing is, she’d like to be the one to study it. She’d like to be the one who found method in madness. The bestiary didn’t count. Nothing that dependent on mythology and hearsay could stand up to Lydia’s stringent scientific standards. She wanted—needed—for there to be order in this.

Order. That was the other thing, wasn’t it.

She literally had no place in this other than the token girlfriend. None. Even Stiles had a place in this mess. He was the reckless, eleventh hour interrupter—and probably the reckless interloper and the reckless werewolf tamer and the reckless… everything. Because that was all he could be for keeping this secret that long—reckless.

All the werewolves had their own place, of course, and even Allison had a place in the tableau as a hunter. But where the hell was Lydia supposed to fit? She wasn’t a werewolf, she wasn’t a hunter, she wasn’t some other third thing. She wasn’t pack, she wasn’t the human backup, she wasn’t a kanima, she wasn’t…

She was just… Lydia.

And just being Lydia was dangerous, as Peter proved. Twice.

And she was afraid. So very afraid.

Lydia let out a shaky sigh. She couldn’t help but think that it might be better if she just… removed herself from the situation entirely. She could do that. She could move back with her father in Los Angeles, and she wouldn’t hate it. He’d gotten better since the divorce—she could see that. He was oddly thoughtful and kind nowadays. Somewhere along the line, he’d learned patience and tact. She could deal with that—she could deal with him. 

And even his brief lapse in front of the house could be easily explained. Her parents were better apart than they were together, and the sight of his old house must have brought up bad memories—memories of the adultery, memories of the bad divorce, memories of Lydia choosing her mom over him. That was understandable. She got that.

So she could live with him. She could ignore everyone and focus on normalcy. Even her mother would support that. Lydia could finish up her high school career, move on to college, and go do everything she planned on doing with her life.

She could drop everything and anything to do with werewolves to stick with something safe, sane, something without Peter lurking in the background, without monsters shadowing her door. She didn’t ask to be involved with this.

She could _escape_.

Lydia sighed and rested her head against the wall. She thought about Jackson, secretly desperate and fighting for control. She thought about Scott and Stiles, bumbling their way from crisis to crisis. She thought about Allison, so innocent and in love. Allison, so bitter and cold after her mother’s death. Allison, wrecked and crying in her room, confessing that she had attacked their classmates—put bolts into Erica and Boyd, put a knife to Isaac’s throat and _pulled_. 

Lydia sighed, rubbing her forehead.

Escape. Well. It was a thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suppression, be it of people, truth, or emotions, never ends well for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: someone is attacked and injured, there's vague discussion of canon child abuse, and Peter's a creep. And then there's a very rude cliffhanger at the end...

Melissa locked up the front door. She had her purse, she had her keys, she had her jacket—was she missing anything? Scott had study-group tonight until eight. She’d be back before then. Her friends had too many kids and work responsibilities to linger too long on a weekday, but, damnit, she was going to have fun tonight, even if it killed her.

She better leave soon. She was burning daylight.

Determined to do just that, Melissa turned around and walked right into a bouquet of flowers. She blinked rapidly at the offer, recoiling. Then she looked beyond it, to the man standing there, expression apologetic and all too freaking familiar.

Feeling her temper rise, Melissa crossed her arms over her chest. “Wow, no. Go away.”

The flowers were lowered. “If you just let me explain-”

“No! The explaining part should have come months ago.” When his mouth opened, she raised a quelling hand. “No. You’re busy, I get it. I would have understood a week. Even two weeks! I know how life gets. But, Dr. Liam-”

He smiled. “Please, it’s Peter.”

Melissa ignored him. “You left me hanging for _two months_ ,” she said. “That’s not you being busy. That’s you being a dick.”

Peter sighed heavily, rolling his eyes up. That was something she didn‘t like, even when she was considering dating him—his utter impatience with everyone else. 

She also didn‘t like the patronizing smile he gave her next. “Okay, I understand. Just let me take you to dinner as an apology.”

That wasn’t… entirely unreasonable?

When Melissa hesitated, Peter lifted the flowers again, giving her a charming smile. This- this- 

No. _No._

This was a slippery slope and she’d already gone down it once already. You say yes to one thing and, before you know it, you were married and pregnant and alone while he was running around the country, free as a bird.

Melissa steeled her spine. “Actually, I’m already going on a date,” she lied.

Peter cocked his head to the side. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he‘d seen right through her. “Really? With who?”

“With me.”

Peter turned around, frowning, and who else was on the pathway up to her house but the good Sheriff Stilinski himself. She cheered inwardly—and maybe a bit outwardly too. Hey, don’t judge.

“Of course,” Peter breathed softly, so softly that she, barely a foot from her, could hardly hear. “Of course it’s one of you.” Then he flashed the sheriff with a bright, insincere smile.

Stilinski didn’t buy it. He was giving Peter a suspicious, narrow eyed expression. Melissa had a feeling he’d had too much experience trying to untangle domestic disputes to be comfortable around squabbling couples. Not that they were a couple or anything.

Melissa sidled up to her friend, hooking an arm through his. “Yes, with him.” She turned a wide, insincere smile on Peter. “Tonight is date night!”

“Really,” Peter said flatly. He looked at Stilinski. “You’re wearing _that_ to a date?”

Stilinski stared back at him evenly. “Why not. Everyone loves a man in uniform.”

Peter looked at the two of them, clearly knowing they were both lying. But, with Stilinski not willing to budge and Melissa glaring a hole in his head, he had nowhere to maneuver. 

“Okay. I can take a hint.” Peter gently put the flowers on her door mat. “Have a lovely evening.”

There was a moment when he paused in front of the sheriff, glancing at him casually before moving past by him. For some reason, Melissa felt very much like they had been eyed up by a predator—and were allowed to live. For now.

Once he was out of sight, Melissa let out a huge sigh of relief. God, what a _creep_.

Melissa turned to Stilinski, loosening her grip on his arm. “Thank you,” she mouthed. 

“No problem. Your taste in men needs work, by the way.” His voice was knowing. He had, after all, met her husband. He’d been her rock, her sanity, and even her babysitter during the rough transition.

As creepy as Dr. Peter Liam was, he had nothing on her husband, the professional bully.

“Oh shut up, Mr. I Have Restraining Orders Against Half The People I Date.”

“Half?” Stilinski sputtered, eyes wide. “More like…” He looked up briefly as he did the math. “More like a _fourth_.”

Melissa snorted at him. “Oh, wow, such a difference. You sure told me.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, looking him over. “What are you really here for?”

Expression sobering, Stilinski pulled out the stack of orange papers under his arm. “Handing out fliers.”

Melissa grinned once, sharply. “So they conned you into doing the door to door thing, huh?”

Stilinski looked very serious. “The people should know that their sheriff is working the case.”

“Is that what they said?”

He was practically pouting. It was adorable. He flapped a paper at her. “Take a flier, smartass.”

Snorting, Melissa took it and scanned it over. It was about the fires, instructing citizens about what to watch for and who to contact if they thought someone was illegally setting fires. She’d heard bits and pieces about the fires on the news. They had their arsonists over the years—both accidental and not—but for the sheriff to start going door to door, this had to be bad. Or getting there.

Frowning, Melissa looked back up at him. “Is it bad?” she asked. Scott had told her about the fire set near his friend Danny’s house, but he’d also said that it was put out in under thirty minutes. Scott also hadn’t jumped immediately to the word arson, optimistically saying that there could have been a downed power line or something. 

Scott tried to think the best of people.

“It could be bad,” Stilinski said grimly. “There was another fire last night. That makes it the third one this week.” He tapped the pile of papers against his hip, straightening them, and then said, “We’ve gotten lucky so far, having dodged a dry season and all, but…” He leaned in close to her and said, in a low voice, “Don’t tell anyone this, but, when I say third fire, I mean that’s the third fire _near a structure_. You wouldn’t not _believe_ how many fires we’ve found in the preserve so far.”

Mellissa fattened a hand against her chest, alarmed. “Oh my God, what are they doing?”

“I don‘t know. Thankfully, they barely went anywhere.” Stilinski’s frown was deep and made him look ten years older. “Honestly, they look like test fires, like someone is building up to something—building up the courage to do something really bad.” He didn’t need to say that the last thing this town needed was an arson’s idea of a grand finale. “So, when you get back to work. If you admit someone with burn marks on their hands and face-”

“Gotcha. We’ll let you know.” Melissa folded up the piece of paper and put it in her purse. “I’ll pass on the info to the rest of the nurses.”

Stilinski nodded, giving her a faint, tired smile. “Thanks. I’ll go to your hospital administration tomorrow to make it official.” 

There was a pause, but it wasn’t an awkward one. It was poignant, waiting. And Melissa smiled at Stilinski and he smiled at her, and it was just…

Melissa was running high on adrenaline. Plus, she was feeling _amazing_. Her hair was obedient today and she was wearing awesome, ass kicking heels that made feet seven feet tall. She just turned away someone who could have easily turned into her husband, 2.0. 

The sun was starting to set and everything felt so right. So perfect.

And she was a grownup person who could ask another grownup if they wanted to do something, goddamnit. 

“Hey! Um.” She tugged a little on the edge of her jacket before blurting out, “Do you maybe want to make that fake date a real date sometime?”

Stilinski gazed back at her, visibly surprised. Then his shoulders slumped. “Look-”

Melissa panicked. They talked over each other. 

“I shouldn’t have asked, you don’t have to-”

Stilinski was rubbing the back of his neck. “-I’m really busy right now and I don’t have any free time, but-”

Melissa wringed her hands, frowning. “-and I realize I may have crossed a line here, but I just-"

“-ask me again after I catch this guy.”

They stopped. Melissa rewound what he said, absorbing it. And then, slowly, she smiled at him.  
Stilinski grinned at her shyly.

It wasn’t a rejection. It was a rain check. 

Okay. She could work with that.

-

It was nine pm, and Scott’s mom hadn’t come home yet.

“Calm down,” Isaac said. He was sitting down at the kitchen table. Both of their science books and class notes were spread out over the table, covering every inch. “She needed this, you know.”

Scott stopped pacing, reluctantly nodded. “Yeah,” he said slowly, easing back into his chair. “I know she did, but…” He trailed off and tried to focus on the notes in front of him. They might as well have been written in Greek. 

“I liked it when my dad went out,” Isaac said suddenly. Scott’s head shot up, eyes focusing in on Isaac’s face, but the other boy looked thoughtful, not disturbed. “He did too. There was something about him being around people that, you know. Made him act like a person.” Isaac smiled once, tightly, his expression distant. “He’d be nice and easy going for days afterwards. He’d sit down with me, like this, and help me with homework, instead of…”

Scott winced. Isaac didn’t need to finish that sentence. 

Isaac blinked rapidly and then, suddenly, he laughed. “He’s a dick and I hate him for what he did to me. I didn’t… I didn’t _deserve_ that. But, in some ways, I think he was suffering too. After Mom, after my brother…” Isaac shook his head, ducking it slightly. “We were all alone. Now…” He ducked lower. “Now _I’m_ all alone.”

“Hey.” Scott reached across the table and touched Isaac’s arm. “You’re _never_ alone. You have Derek.” Isaac rolled his eyes at that. Scott pressed on anyway, saying, “You have Derek, okay? And Jackson too. You have a pack.” Isaac didn’t exactly look comforted by that. 

Scott fought down a scowl. It just figured that the only guy around who knew how a normal pack was supposed to operate completely failed at running one.

“You have me too,” Scott said quietly, not sure how Isaac would take that.

Isaac’s arm stiffened slightly under his touch. Then, after a beat, he looked back at Scott, visibly conflicted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Isaac swallowed hard, lifting his eyebrows. “And after summer school…?”

“Then too. You’re stuck with me.” Scott smiled widely at him. “We’re friends. Whether you like it or not!”

After a beat, Isaac grinned back. Then he perked up slightly. “Car?”

Scott could hear it too, the sound of a labored engine pulling onto their street. He shot up and almost immediately sat down. His mom would be concerned if he met her at the door, after all.

Five minutes later, the engine turned off in front of the garage. Scott listened intently as a key scraped at the handle of the door. 

As the door opened, he got a whiff of perfume, make-up, and the sweat of other people. He also caught the slight scent of alcohol, faint and hours old. 

His mom sighed, pulling off her shoes. Heels in one hand, keys in the other, she walked past the kitchen without a second glance.

A moment later, she backtracked, peeking around the corner with a frown.

“I thought it was study group, not study pair.” She then smiled. “Hi, Isaac.”

“Hi,” Isaac replied quietly. 

“The others flaked out on us,” Scott explained, shrugging.

Melissa crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. “Oh?”

“Mr. Harvey’s super cool and he makes everything seem easy, but he’s still throwing a ton of information at us at once. I think the ‘cool’ and ‘easy’ parts have lulled people into a false sense of security.”

“Well, I’m glad you guys are being so diligent.” Melissa included Isaac in her proud smile. Isaac blushed and pretended his notes were fascinating, so she relented and just looked at Scott. “So. Do you need me to order pizza or anything?”

“It’s fine. I made spaghetti.” Scott gestured to the pot still on the stove before folding his arms over the table. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes. Well, that depends on your definition of fun.” Melissa sighed, walking over to the table. She took one of the free chairs, setting her heels on the ground. She mirrored Scott’s position, gazing at him steadily. “Be honest with me. If I date again, will you get mad?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to ask me that _every time_.” He smiled though. His mom and his dad were separated, not divorced, which always made things complicated, but his mom deserved to be happy. “Who is he?”

“You know him.” Melissa tipped her head to the side, smiling warmly, spark back in her eyes. “He’s kind and protective and he treats you like you’re his son too.”

Scott stared at her for a moment in shock. And then he started grinning. “Are you- really? _Really_?”

Isaac peeked up at them, confused, but Scott could barely piece together an explanation in his _head_ , let alone one out loud.

“Yeah!” Melissa’s smile dimmed. “But maybe I shouldn’t.”

“What?” Isaac asked, gazing at her with a concerned expression. “Why not?” 

“It’s complicated,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. 

There was silence for a moment. Isaac and Scott looked at each other. Isaac still seemed puzzled, so Scott mouthed ‘the sheriff’ silently. It didn’t seem to clear up Isaac’s confusion any, because why would dating Stiles’ dad be “complicated” at all?

Scott waited for his mom to speak, watching her rub her face tiredly.

After a beat, she laid her hands back on the table, gazing back and forth between the two of them with a look of grim sobriety. 

“I understand why you two keep your secret. I do, I really do. But…” Melissa bit her bottom lip. “I’m not sure if I can date him, if I can look at him in the face while knowing that his son—his fragile vulnerable _human_ son—is running around, chasing supernatural bad guys.” She looked deeply concerned and uneasy. “I just- what if Stiles gets hurt? _Again_? And what if I know why, but I can’t tell him? I just-“

“Mom,” Scott said, heading her off at the pass. “First of all, Stiles is almost an adult. You can’t be responsible for what he does or doesn’t do.” Melissa dipped her head, nodding quickly. “Second of all, trust me. I’m working on a way to figure out how to tell the sheriff about us. You won’t be the only one in the know forever, I promise. And…”

Scott stopped, holding his breath. He felt himself on the cusp of something, and anxious for it. This was it. Jump or back off.

His mom was staring at him, forehead wrinkled up in a frown. “Is there a third point to that?”

Scott looked back at her. He thought about her tears, all those sleepless nights pacing. He thought about how she looked when she saw his beta form, how she’d struggled for breath when the kanima had her. He thought about the way she’d gone overboard in the beginning, tightening up his curfew and making him text her where he was every thirty minutes. And then he thought about how she’d given up on that, resigned and hopeless, knowing he’d leave if he had to—if there was another supernatural mess to deal with.

He made a decision and leapt.

“The third point is that Beacon Hills is totally safe.”

His mom snorted. “Kid, I wasn’t born yesterday.” She rolled her eyes and looked at Isaac. Isaac stared down at his flash cards like he was trying to burn a hole in them.

“I’m serious!” Scott knew he had to sell it better, so sell it he did. He started ticking off points of evidence. “The alpha that bit me isn’t around anymore. Jackson’s no longer a kanima. Gerard is dead. All the hunters left town, even Allison. Literally none that has caused a problem around here is left anymore.” That was stretching it. “Sure, there are werewolves around, but, Mom. We’re just trying to get through school, nothing more.”

Melissa watched him. She looked like these were all things she wanted to hear, but she couldn’t help but poke holes in them. “What about…” She looked up at the ceiling, clearly trying to remember everything he told her. Then she snapped her fingers. “What about _Derek_ , huh? He was an issue for a while, right?”

Scott shrugged it off. “Derek got a little pushy with power, but he’s better now.” 

“He’s more concerned with keeping the peace than starting any trouble,” Isaac said, unexpectedly backing him up. “Nor is he interested in making anymore pack.”

Scott thought about Erica and Boyd, leaving. He thought about Peter lingering around like a thief in the night, and the mess with Jackson’s turning. If he had Derek’s particular luck, he wouldn’t want to make anymore betas either.

Melissa nodded. “Okay, but what about the arsonist?”

Scott frowned. “Kate’s dead.” He was pretty sure he told her that, right? 

But his mom made a dismissive gesture. “Not that- I mean the fires. The ones happening right now.”

Oh.

“Mom, I can’t do anything about human crimes. It’s not my place.”

“Okay, yeah, I get that, but…” She sighed, looking between them. “That’s really not one of you?” Her expression was wary, but hopeful.

Isaac shrugged. “A fire is not generally the way werewolves roll.” 

His mom absorbed that quietly before looking back at Scott. “So, despite your whole werewolfiness… everything’s back to normal? Everyone is safe?”

“Yes.” And he was going to do his best to keep it that way.

Melissa laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad,” she said, reaching for his hand. There were tears in her eyes. “I worry about your school and your life and whether or not you’re keeping yourself safe, and it’s just…” Her smile widened into a grin. “I’m so glad.”

Feeling guilty, Scott forced a smile, patting her hand. “We’re out of trouble, Mom. And we’re staying out of it.” Thoroughly uncomfortable now, he moved the subject away from his gigantic fib. “So feel free to date and be happy. We’re fine.”

“Wonderful,” she said. Melissa grinned at the both of them for a second, tapping the wood twice. Then she stood, gently releasing Scott. “I’m going to head off to bed. Keeping studying, okay?”

They both said their good-nights to Melissa as she leaned over to pick up her heels. Then they watched as she left the room, listened as she walked up the stairs and into her bedroom. Once when she closed the door behind her did Isaac stop staring at the ceiling.

Instead, he looked at Scott. “Why’d you lie to your mom?”

“I can’t keep her safe. The least I can do is make sure she’s happy,” Scott said quietly. He pulled his book closer to him. “So. Back to chemical bonds…” 

-

“Wow, _no_.”

“You know, that’s the second time in the last twenty-four hours I’ve gotten that reaction.” Peter sipped idly at his foamy beverage, raising his eyebrows slightly at Stiles. The bastard didn’t bother getting up—that’s how little Peter saw him as a threat.

Stiles snarled soundlessly at him. He’d gone to get his usual extra syrup-y, loaded with sugar and caffeine concoction, only to find Peter sitting there, in Stiles’ _coffee shop_ , lounging with his laptop like a freaking hipster.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ghost dog was following him around and was currently sitting outside the door, pacing anxiously. Stiles was trying his best to ignore it.

“It’s summer and it’s six o’clock in the morning,” Peter said gently. “What are you doing up?”

Stiles bristled defensively. “Why are you still _alive_?”

Peter held a finger to his lips. “You might want to consider our venue before yelling things so loudly.”

Stiles almost defended his inside voice, but then he got a good look around and winced. The two other customers were huddled together defensively, shooting disturbed glances his way. Scowling, Stiles yanked out the chair across from Peter and sat down.

Immediately, he leaned forward and hissed, “What are you plotting?”

“Oh Stiles,” Peter said with a sigh, swirling his latte around in a cup. His other hand was flat against the table. “Always so willing to shove your head into the lion’s mouth. But does anyone ever appreciate it?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“And you’re avoiding mine.” Suddenly, the movement lightning fast, Peter’s free hand shot out, capturing Stiles’ wrist. The grip was hard and unyielding, and it didn’t take much imagination to predict how little effort Peter had to exert to break his bones. 

Peter leaned forward, his kind expression belied by the hint of claws digging into Stiles’ skin. “Does anyone. Ever. Appreciate you.” 

Stiles stared at his captured wrist. The ghost dog barked outside, drawing his attention for a brief second—but only for a second. The threat in front of him was more dire than the nebulous one outside.

Feeling sweat starting to pool under his practice clothes, he took in a deep breath, weighing his options. After the year he’d had, submission was not one of them.

He looked up, making eye contact. He made it, held it, didn’t even blink. Then, when he spoke, it was with absolute certainty and honesty. “If you’re up to something, I’ll put you back into the grave myself.” Stiles lifted his eyebrows. “And, guess what, buddy? No one will miss you.”

Peter stared at him for a moment longer, his true expression slipping through. It would never not disturb Stiles how little this guy felt—and how much he faked the rest.

Then Peter was smiling, releasing him to settle back into his chair. “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” he said chidingly. “I’m different now. My vengeance is over with. I’ve done what I’ve needed to do. I’m not a threat to any of you!” He flattened a hand over his chest, looking earnest. “I’m a changed man.”

“Changed? Yeah, right.” Stiles propped his chin up on his palm, smiling derisively. “Physically, maybe." He cocked his head to the side. "Let me guess. After you caught up with everything you missed during your coma, you looked at yourself in the mirror and went, wow, I am a _douchebag_." Stiles lifted his eyebrows, letting his mouth pull into a grin. "So you switched up your fashion so it didn't scream lame ass villain, right? A little less Jerry Dandridge in 1985 and a little more Tony Stark in 2008? You know, to keep up with the times.”

"Wow, it was like you were there." Unfazed by Stiles' digs, Peter smirked, then gestured at himself. “You like?”

Stiles stopped smiling. “No. Clothes mean nothing. You’re the same asshole who chased a bunch of teenagers around an empty school for no freaking reason.”

“Not true!” Peter protested. “That last confrontation? I totally helped.”

Stiles had a feeling he was being mocked. “So you went from wreaking blood and mayhem by ripping through half the town to wreaking blood and mayhem by ripping through _one of my classmates_. Oh yeah, you’ve changed.”

“I promise, I cross my heart, I’ve changed, and it’s all-"

“Really taking advantage of the fact I can’t hear your heart, huh?”

Peter talked over him. “-thanks to the power of human love.”

Stiles recoiled. “You’re full of shit,” he said, but it was uncertain.

Peter sighed, as if burdened. “Yes, Melissa seemed to think so too.” He slid his cup from hand to hand, back and forth. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know if Scott told her the truth about me, would you?”

Unfortunately, Stiles did know the answer to that. “If she knew the truth about you, that you bit him, that you attacked and terrorized him and tried to turn him into a killer, you wouldn’t have gotten a rejection. You would have gotten a _bullet_ through your freaking _head_.”

Peter shook his head, shooting Stiles a superior look over his cup. “Please, she’s from a do no harm crowd.” He took a deep swallow, eyes lazily falling back to his laptop.

“She’s a nurse, not a doctor, and a single mom on top of that. You think Scott is bad? _She’s the one he learned it from._ ” 

Peter glanced back up at him, like such a thing was intriguing. Challenging. _Exciting._

Frustrated, Stiles stood, pushing away from the table. “Stay away from Scott’s mom.”

He left without his coffee, not wanting to stay in Peter’s presence a second longer.

It was only later that he realized that Peter had neatly controlled that conversation, riling him up about Melissa so he’d forget that there were things more frightening about Peter than his tendency to make passes at parents.

He pulled his jeep into the school parking lot, already knowing it was going to be a bad day. 

This feeling was amplified when he saw two cop cars parked in front of the school. Both were already out, walking towards the school, but the taller of the two paused, turning to the parking lot and seeking out the jeep with his eyes.

Stiles parked a little neater than he would have originally, pulled his practice gear over his shoulder before hopping out of the car. He started to go in their direction, but the sleeve of his long armed undershirt got caught in something. He turned, thinking he’d closed it in the door or something, but…

That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

The ghost dog stared up at him, eyes flickering magnesium white intermittingly, like a light bulb with a bad connection. It had a very gently grip on Stiles’ sleeve with its pale white teeth. Then, when Stiles just stared at it, frozen and scared, it whined quietly, sending slightly humid, slightly cold air over his hand.

Then, reluctantly, it let him go, sitting on the ground with a thump and a dismal slump of its shoulders. 

Hugging his arm to his chest, Stiles slowly backed away from it until he cleared the length of his car. Then, hackles rising, he turned around, putting his back to the thing before jogging over to the waiting cops.

“Daddi-o!” Hoping his expression didn’t reveal too much, Stiles forced a grin and skidded to a stop in front of his dad. “What’s with the long face?”

Behind him, Deputy Boyd was watching with an impassive expression. She was almost impossible to read, just like her son.

Stiles shifted his gaze from her back to his dad just in time to see the sheriff rub his forehead. “The deputy needs to talk to the principal and I need to speak with your coach,” he said tiredly. After a beat, he stepped back and gestured at the school with an arm. “You mind leading the way?”

“No problem-o, mi padre.” Stiles stepped up on the sidewalk, turning and smiling at Boyd’s mom. It was a little strained. “Hello, Deputy Boyd! Wonderful day we’re having, isn’t it?”

As for Deputy Boyd—never Mrs. Boyd, he’d learned years and year ago—she just rolled her eyes and walked to the office, completely ignoring him.

His dad waited until the door closed behind her before elbowing his son. “Stop being so awkward around her. You’re not subtle.”

Glad for the excuse his dad presented to him on a silver platter, Stiles ran with it. “She scares me! I have to act aloof. She’s like a shark when blood hits the water.” He didn’t want to be in the principal’s shoes either. The guy had been squirrely since he’d come out from wherever the Argents stuffed him, and Deputy Boyd was scary even on one of her good days. She’d had nothing but bad days since her son disappeared.

But, as scary as she was, there were scarier things out there. Taking the lead, Stiles re-shouldered his gear and distractedly rubbed at his wrist.

His dad followed a couple of paces behind, sighing at him. “Kid, I don’t know what you’re emoting, but aloof ain’t it.”

-

Jackson lowered himself to the bench with a heavy, aggravated sigh. Despite the fact he quit the team, Jackson still found himself at school right before morning lacrosse practice. 

Finstock had asked him to come anyway. Jackson thought that the coach was under the impression he’d developed a phobia to lacrosse and that the only way to cure himself of the phobia was to introduce lacrosse back into his life in small doses. In his own, Finstockian way, he was trying to help Jackson.

Whatever. Jackson didn’t even know why he was here. Beyond the fact that it was summer and he could have theoretically ignored Finstock’s summons, Finstock had spent the first twenty minutes of Jackson’s “rehabilitation” assembling his lacrosse dream team on his office wall. He had to leave the room to save his own sanity.

Normally, Jackson would have been pleased to see he was on the list (represented, like everyone else, with an alarming large cut out of his head), but the composition of the “dream team” also included McCall, Lahey, and Boyd.

He hated Lahey, McCall was annoying, and Boyd? Well, Jackson had no opinion on Boyd, but the less said about Boyd around Finstock, the better. 

Coach actually got teary eyed over the subject, even now. A couple of weeks back, he’d single handedly coordinated the “Find Boyd and that girl” campaign and, on the missing person’s posters, wrote haikus like “Boyd stands like a wall, almost as good as McCall, makes burly kids fall.” His intentions might have been good, but his execution, like most things he did, was borderline offensive.

To add insult to injury, Finstock was irrationally proud of his creative skills. “It’s not a poem unless it’s rhymes,” he told anyone who asked. Boyd’s mother almost pistol whipped him.

Whatever. At least Danny was pleased to see him. 

Danny trash talked him a bit, asking if Jackson had gotten anywhere with his cheers. He was smiling widely. Jackson was happy to trash talk him back, saying lazy people lounging in a goal didn’t get awesome Whittemore cheers. 

Half-dressed, Danny turned towards him, half-smiling. “Hey, I’m the light of your life, you prick.”

“You’re a dim light bulb, at best,” Jackson replied with a grin. For his wit, he got slapped with a smelly sock—and, damn, did that smell awful.

Danny sat down next to him to switch shoes. There were still twenty minutes before practice started. Finstock be damned, he planned to be out of there before them. He patted Danny’s shoulder and stood, making his excuses.

He had to leave before practice started. He wanted to play--he craved it. But he also wanted to avoid having his spine severed again, thank you very much.

Derek probably wouldn’t crack down that hard, but the guy was unpredictable. It was best not to risk it.

Before Jackson could leave, Brian skidded into the room, face flushed and eyes wide. 

“Dude. Dudes. Dudebros.” Brian came to an abrupt halt, pausing for dramatic effect. Then he said, with gravity, “Someone set fire to Coach’s house.” 

There was silence for a good five seconds. Then the locker room exploded into a chorus of voices. The sound almost deafened Jackson.

“No way!”

“His house, are you sure?

“Seriously?”

Jackson winced, clapping his hands over his ears, but no one noticed, too busy crowding Brian to get the full scoop. Jackson was left behind, just outside the group.

Meanwhile, Brian nodded up and down enthusiastically. “The cops are here, they’re looking for him-” 

Just then, the coach’s office door swung open violently, slamming against the wall. Finstock lingered just outside of the threshold, looking shocky. Danny’s paper cut out head floated to the floor.

“Someone. Set fire. To my house. My house?” He tapped himself on the chest and blinked several times. He paused, then said out of the corner of his mouth, “On Craven Street?”

“Yeah, Coach,” Brian said, looking apologetic.

Finstock covered his mouth with both hands. Everyone in the locker room collectively cringed. 

But then, strangely, the guy started _smiling._

“Oh my God,“ he said in a rush, “this? _This is the best day of my life._ Seriously, the powers that be must love me.” He laughed once, sharply. Then he started ticking things off on his fingers. “First, the vending machine gives me two Gatorades instead of one, then I find a quarter on the ground, then some twerp lights my house on fire.” The coach looked at them all, beaming widely, and then shouted, “Hallelujah!”

Jackson stared at him incredulously. “Are you high?”

“He doesn’t live there anymore, guys.” McCall was in the doorway, a backpack loosely hanging from one shoulder. “He paid me and Stiles seventy bucks to move his stuff out of there last summer.”

A collective noise of comprehension rippled across the group.

“Exactly!” Finstock said viciously, letting out huge shout of laughter. “Burn, baby, burn!” He danced his way back into his office, slamming his door shut behind him. After a moment, they heard him start cackling madly. 

“It was a really bad divorce,” McCall revealed, like that explained anything. He winced at a particularly loud shout of glee. “She got the house. He’s working three jobs and living in a trailer outside of town.”

Finstock’s voice drifted through the door. “Oh my God, it’s on the news. My life is complete. Greenberg! How do I put this one the you tube? I want to remember this _for all time_.”

Looking like a man walking to his execution, Greenberg hung his head and trudged silently into the coach’s office, closing the door behind him.

“No wonder the cops are here,” Brian said bitterly. “They probably thought he did it. What a nut job.” He said it quietly, though. He wasn’t that much of an idiot. He didn’t want to have to help Finstock with his computer too. That fate was reserved for only the people Finstock hated the most.

Jackson snorted, exchanging a look with Danny. Danny rolled his eyes and walked back over to his locker, re-opening it with a clang. He pulled out his pads and started shrugging them on.

Just like that, everyone was breaking off into their own groups. Jackson stayed near Danny, eyeing his practice jersey wistfully. 

He tried to ignore how McCall was pulled into a conversation with another player—or, rather, bench warmer. McCall had become a sort of rags-to-riches story for the rest of the team. Everyone kept asking him how he did that. 

Lycanthropy, dumb asses.

Jackson scowled. And no one kept him from playing, did they? In those early days, he could have killed someone on that field as easily as Jackson could now. But he didn’t. Jackson supposed that was the difference between the two of them.

Jackson had blood on his hands. McCall didn’t.

Oblivious to the dark turn of Jackson’s thoughts, Danny smirked at Jackson. “Pretty sure Coach forgot all about you,” he said teasingly. 

Jackson frowned at him. Was that supposed to make him feel better or worse?

“Whatever. It’s not like he wasted my entire afternoon or anything.”

“Oh, come on. What’s one day out of-” Danny’s voice became indistinct—fuzzy, like a voice heard underwater. Jackson closed his eyes, trying to focus, to tune in. Just as Danny’s voice started to sharpen, a different voice—a female voice—suddenly became much clearer. 

Jackson’s eyes shot open. He could hear Lydia. 

“Jackson?”

Jackson didn’t register Danny’s question, because… because Lydia was back, Lydia was _here_.

She was chatting excitedly about her trip to Rome and all the things she’d seen, promising pictures and videos. She sounded giddy in a way she rarely was—rarely allowed herself to be. At least not in public. Not to Jackson.

And then Stiles’ voice—his stupid grating voice—cut in, wistful and jealous and just as enthusiastic. Then Lydia said she had to cut the phone call short—she had dinner plans.

“Oh, I’ll call you later,” she promised. It wasn’t a lie.

Stiles made an agreeable noise. “Usual time?”

“Usual time. And, trust me, you will not be raiding tonight.” Stiles made a noise of scandalized horror, moaning about how she was cramping his gaming style, but that hardly registered to Jackson, because he had finally had _enough_.

Later, Jackson would remember the heated feeling in his face, the burn of his claws extending, the slightly red tinge to the locker room. At the time, though, all of his focus and attention remained on the conversation outside of the building—on Stiles’ squawking, on Lydia practicing her Italian on him playfully while Stiles pretended to understand. 

Lydia sounded lighter, happier, younger. And Stiles… Stiles was the source of that, the receiver of that and- 

And-

Stiles was rounding the corner, pocketing his phone. He walked into the locker room and lifted his hand, calling out a greeting to the rest of the team and McCall. Jackson barely noticed the man behind the wimp because… 

Because weeks and weeks of directionless anger and rage and guilt suddenly found an outlet. A place to happen. A scapegoat.

A second later, Jackson darted forward and slammed Stiles’ head into the locker.

Right in front of his cop father.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm pissed and you're an easy target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: blood (Stiles’ head injury), angst, flashbacks, Derek entertains revenge fantasies, and Stiles lashes out. For some of us, Jackson gets off way too easy.

Jackson watched Stiles fall as if at a distance, as if outside of his own body, as if someone else was controlling the wheel. 

If only. Jackson remembered what that was like, being a puppet on a string. No, this wasn’t that.

Stiles’ head hit the metal with a dull thunk, a hollow sound—hollow like Jackson’s gut, his head. Because whatever the hell that rage was? It was gone.

And Stiles was left, groaning, curling up, and bleeding on the floor. 

And, all of a sudden, Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore. Stiles was a soon-to-be father, neck broken. Stiles was a quiet young woman, throat ripped out. Stiles was a hunter, a mechanic, a nine-to-fiver. 

Stiles was Lahey’s dad. Stiles was a deputy, nameless but not faceless, one after another. Stiles was Allison, Nurse McCall, Derek, and, and-

And Jackson?

Jackson was exactly what Matt and Gerard wanted him to be. A weapon. A _monster_.

Jackson fled.

-

It all happened so fast.

One second, Stiles was walking, the next, he was on the floor, woozy with a hand clamped to his face. 

Everyone was so _loud_. The whole room was a mess of different sounds—raised voices, loud whispers, dark growling. Well. He felt the last more than he heard it—felt it vibrate through flesh and bone as Scott hauled him into the locker room’s bathroom. 

Scott clumsily started mopping Stiles’ face with wet paper towels. All Stiles could think of was his father swearing and disappearing through the door and-

Stiles pushed Scott’s hands away, breathing hard and freaking out because his dad was out there, vulnerable and oblivious and handcuffed to the wall. 

Stiles couldn’t help him. He was paralyzed, just barely, feeling enough of his limbs to resent the prickling ripple through his skin even as his muscles twitched weakly, unable to lift him far off the floor.

Then Scott came at him again with the towels, voice muffled and- oh.

The kanima was weeks ago. Why did he even-

Stiles’ head throbbed as his thoughts started to clear. Dizzy, he blinked rapidly until he recognized the cracked tile of the locker room bathroom. Many a day in here he spent. Many a day. He was a body shy freshman crowded guys like Jackson, who strutted around naked and-

Jackson had slammed his freaking _head_ into the locker. 

And no one did a thing about it.

Stiles jerked his head away from Scott’s towels, trying to think past the pain. There was more than one kind of it. On top of the physical ache and throbbing, there was this feeling in his chest, this twisting lingering knowledge of not being saved, yet again, of having escaped with his life only at the whim of his attacker, yet again, of being victimized for no freaking reason, _yet again_.

Unable to take any more of it, Stiles shoved Scott away from him, feeling horribly betrayed. He teetered on one foot, gritting his teeth at the renewed throbbing of his head at the slight movement. The dim light felt like a knife to his soul.

“Stiles?”

Stiles clenched his eyes shut for minute before opening them again. “Why are you even here?” 

“In the locker room?” Stiles squinted at him, not bothering to reply. Scott looked distressed. “I was waiting for you. I have to tell you something.” As if remembering, Scott leaned back, expression grave. “Deaton was telling me about it. A few days ago, someone was-”

Stiles laughed angrily. “Who gives a crap about _Deaton_ , you asshole. Your packmate _viciously attacked me_!” He shouted the last of that but then sucked in a pained breath because yelling hadn’t helped the ache one bit. 

Clenching his eyes shut, Stiles turned and stumbled blindly away. He caught himself on the edge of the sink. He had the worst headache in the world. It felt like his brain was trying to explode out of his skull. He glanced at the mirror, looking at the cut. Gross.

Stomach turning, he made a face and averted his gaze. He turned on the faucet and started splashing water on himself so he didn’t look like such a bloody mess.

After a beat, Scott crowded him at his shoulder. “Hey, come on.” Scott spoke softly, like he might to an injured puppy. “Let me help you.” He reached out, trying to touch Stiles, trying to drain away his pain.

Too little, too late. 

Stiles slapped his hand away. “No, back off. I don’t need you. I’ve had to learn how to deal without you, okay? And it’s _better_ that way.”

Scott looked confused. “What do you mean? 

His face only made Stiles angrier. “It’s not worth it, needing you. Because when I do, you’re never. Freaking. There!” After the shout left his lips, Stiles’ mouth snapped shut. His teeth were grinding hard together, aching.

He’d-

He’d said too much there. There was-

He was mad, but not-

Not at-

Conflicted, Stiles looked up at the mirror just in time to see Scott’s face buckling. And Stiles? Stiles just felt like shit. Stiles tightened his shoulders, lifted his chin slightly, preparing himself for the consequences. He deserved to be yelled at, he deserved to be-

But Scott didn’t yell at him. All he did was nod and step back. Then he turned around and left.

Stiles’ anger slipped through his fingers. He tried to hold onto it, tried to stay angry, but the guilt was louder. Scott hadn’t deserved that.

Jackson, though. _Jackson._

Jackson had no freaking reason to attack him. If he’d ever had reason to slam his head against anything, it was at the mall when Stiles had thrown the kanima thing back in his face. Not when- not when-

Hell, Stiles hadn’t done anything! He’d just _walked_ into the freaking room and Jackson had-

Stiles hadn’t done _anything_ to that prick, and look how he was rewarded, look how he’d been left! Wet, bloody, and alone in the locker room bathroom. 

Wait, no. Not alone. He had his phone. More importantly, he had a _number_.

Lydia was going to hear about this. There was no way she wouldn’t see what Stiles saw, no way she wouldn’t finally understand that Jackson was _out of control_. There was no way- 

No way-

Stiles pressed his palms against his face, letting out a frustrated noise. Why was it so hard to _think_? Ugh.

He turned off the faucet. With trembling hands, he pulled out his cell phone. He was smearing blood all over the screen, almost seeing double. 

He tapped on her contact info and started calling Lydia. He lifted it to his ear.

One ring. Two. Three. And then-

“Hello?”

At the sound of her voice, so light and happy, Stiles froze. He stared up at his reflection, not recognizing the person there, not recognizing the twisted, vengeful face looking back at him.

He was smiling. He had blood caked in his hair. He’d just ripped his best friend apart. Why the hell was he _smiling_?

“Stiles? Stiles, are you there?”

Stiles let out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling very cold. He was snapping like a cornered, vicious dog at everyone and-

Clarity broke through weeks, maybe even years of bullshit. The angry, vengeful face broke just as Scott’s had. Crumbled into pieces. 

Stiles covered his face with a hand so he didn’t have to look at himself anymore.

He was attacked. Stiles couldn’t even _see_ straight, but his first impulse was to cackle with glee and run off to ruin the one real relationship Jackson had with anyone. To wreck. To rip it to shreds. To completely annihilate their happiness—Jackson and Lydia’s both.

And, if he was going to be truly and brutally honest to himself, his only real motivation was breaking them up so he had a snowball’s chance in hell with Lydia. There were better ways to deal with Jackson—more immediate ways, more effective ones.

He’d gone for the lowest of low blows and tried to score a profit.

“Stiles, did you butt dial me?”

Stiles flinched at the teasing note in her voice—at the unmasked _affection_ —and bowed his head over the phone, barely able to breathe. His eyes heated up. 

God, he… he was a mess. He was an awful mess. He’d attacked Scott and then he went to go attack Lydia, because, twisted justification or not, what he wanted to do was an attack—no doubt about it. And Stiles just couldn’t-

Stiles hung up.

With shaking fingers, he opened up a text message to her and typed _sorry, butt dialed you._ He sniffled miserably, rubbing his face off with his sleeve.

He wanted to go home. He wanted his mom. He wanted a time machine to start this day over.

Just then, his dad came in, flushed, sweaty, and aggressive. “Little bastard ran off. Don’t worry, Stiles, we’ll-” His dad paused, looking at him—really looking at him. “Stiles?” He sounded deeply worried, like he was waiting for the second shoe to drop.

Stiles stared at his phone. It beeped with a notification of an incoming text. 

_I knew it! :)_

Smiling bleakly, Stiles pressed the screen to his chest. For the first time in weeks, he let out a low, relaxed breath. Weight lifted off his shoulders.

Other ways to deal with Jackson. Right. He knew what he had to do next.

His dad approached him cautiously. “Where’s Scott?” 

Pressing another wad of paper towels to his forehead, Stiles slid his cell in his pocket before looking up. “Dad, I think I need to go to the doctor.”

His dad visibly jolted at the reminder. “Uh. Right. Of course. We can get you to the ER right away.”

“Not that doctor. Well, yes, that one too.” Stiles made a face, trying to explain himself better. “I mean Dr. Collins.” 

The sheriff stopped short before saying, strangely, “The shrink?”

“Yeah.” Stiles ducked his head, frowning. He thought about the expression on Jackson’s face when Stiles had snapped at him in the mall—the broken, helpless fear in him. Being a werewolf hadn’t solved any of Jackson’s problems for him—and had, in fact, only created more. And, to think, he’d been so glad to bring Jackson down a peg, so glad to make someone feel as hurt and alone as Stiles did.

Stiles was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that Jackson had a whole life outside of Stiles, a whole different range of problems. All he knew for sure was that Jackson was drowning in his issues worse than Stiles was, which said something.

That flailing resentment he’d been feeling towards the guy for, oh, his entire life? Yeah. That just keeled over and died.

Stiles steeled his spine, head still throbbing. “But, before we do that, I think you and I need to have a little chat about Jackson Whittemore.”

His dad’s expression immediately soured at the name. Yeah. This was not going to be fun.

It was time to appeal to the dad in him. But first, a chair. Stiles was feeling super woozy.

-

All Jackson was aware of was disjointed bits of thought sliding through the raw fear.

His life was over. Lydia would never-

His parents were-

Danny was gonna-

He felt like he was suffocating, like a balloon was filling in his chest, growing larger and larger until there was no room for his lungs, his throat, even his heart. Sweat rolled down his face like tears.

He’d never felt so defeated and hunted before in his entire life. 

Operating on pure instinct, Jackson ran straight to his alpha’s apartment, more shifted than not, taking to the woods instead of the roads.

Derek’s place was the only place he could think of that was still good—still _safe_. He and Derek were hardly friends, but they existed in that comforting setting of bland tolerance where Jackson knew there was literally no way to make Derek think any less of him—that there was literally nothing he could do that could make him sink any lower in Derek’s eyes.

Then he showed up at his alpha’s doorstep, reeking of Stiles’ blood, panting and scared. Jackson didn’t even need to knock. When Derek opened the door, Jackson knew immediately he had vastly miscalculated. 

His expression darkening dangerously, Derek dragged him forward by the collar and slammed the door shut behind them.

-

Orange afternoon sunlight cut through the window, lighting up a long, stretched out rectangle across the floor.

Derek paced in, out, and through it without ever looking down, each stride long and quick. His heart was racing. He was trembling and he couldn’t say for sure if that was from fear or anger.

He should have known that this was going to happen. He should have- he should have predicted it. He had all the information necessary to do so. And yet… He ignored it. He ignored it all.

Every bitten beta had a question for him, a question that completely illustrated where they were coming from and where they would go.

Scott had asked, _why me_? And, on the heels of it, _how do I protect the people around me_? Erica had asked after her health, if she’d be cured. Isaac asked if he’d have the strength to defend himself, should his father get too carried away. As for Boyd, he just wanted friends—more than friends. A family. A pack.

But _Jackson_. Jackson had stood in front of him, scared but defiant, desperate but entitled, and demanded if this thing—this one little thing—would be enough to make him better than anyone else.

It was half the reason Derek had thrown him in the pond. Arrogant and flushed with stolen power, Derek had thought that Jackson needed a quick introduction to the fact of life that, supernatural upgrade or not, there was always going to be someone else better than you. He asserted his authority and he left, letting the shock of cold water and incipient hypothermia jumpstart Jackson’s shift. Lesson learned, he’d thought.

Derek had been such an _ass_.

And look where that led him—nearly packless with an injured human and a beta with a taste for human blood.

Derek rubbed a hand over his face. He tried to rationalize it, trying to quell the flutter of nerves in his stomach that made him want to hurl. However much Jackson’d hurt Stiles, it couldn’t have been a lot, right? Jackson reeked more of his own panicking fear than anything that came from Stiles. But, then again, Peter hadn’t really smelled like Kate’s blood right after ripping her throat out, had he.

Jackson cowered by the closet door. He’d been standing there for hours—ever since Derek let him into his apartment. He’d stepped forward once, twenty minutes in. More wolf than man at the moment, Derek had snarled until Jackson pressed his back to the wall again, heart racing and eyes pointed submissively to the ground. 

It wasn’t enough. Derek wanted to rake his claws against Jackson’s stomach and leave him bleeding and hurting and alive just long enough for Derek to figure out what to do with him. But Derek restrained himself and pulled back, burying the rage under calm. He wasn’t going to be that kind of alpha. He refused. 

Derek stopped pacing, palming his face. He rubbed down once, then dropped his hand. A moment later, it was rising and pointing to the door. “Go.” 

It was the first thing he said to Jackson all day.

Jackson lifted his eyebrows. “Come again?” The words were sarcastic, but they came out hoarse and small.

Derek faced him. “Go turn yourself into the sheriff’s office,” he said, words clarified. His heart was just about leaping out of his chest. Instead standing there, relatively stationary in his own home, he felt instead like he was in the middle of a fight and trying to make the right decision in a life or death situation under a time limit—and every decision was the wrong one.

“What? _No_!”

Not terribly surprised by that reaction, Derek shook his head. “That’s the only way to fix things, Jackson.”

“That’s not fixing anything. I can’t go to _jail_.” Jackson’s expression was wild. Derek could see the whites of his eyes all around his irises, which flashing a telling blue. “They can’t make me. I’m a _werewolf_.” 

Strangely, Jackson’s sheer panic had a calming effect on Derek. One of them had to keep their wits about them. 

Derek pulled away all hints of the wolf until only the human remained. Then he straightened to his full height before saying, firmly, “They will hold you because you will let them.”

“Says who?” Jackson spat venomously.

Derek didn’t even blink. “Says your alpha.”

Jackson laughed bitterly. “What, the douchebag who wants to lock me away? No thanks.” For all his strong words, he hesitated before pulling away from the wall. “I’ll just _run away_.”

Derek breathed in and breathed out. This was karma, wasn’t it? The universe was laughing at him. He felt like he‘d heard this conversation before, from his own mouth, years and years ago. He had no idea how Laura hadn’t broken his jaw and sat on him until he submitted to her will.

Derek didn’t have her patience.

Derek pointed to the door again instead. “You want to go, leave this town? Then go. No one’s stopping you.” Some of his temper started coming through. He didn’t bother to suppress it, letting his mouth narrow and his face glower. “But if you leave, you’ll be an omega and you’ll _never_ be allowed back here. You’ll never be allowed to visit your family, your friends, or your girlfriend.” Derek stalked towards Jackson, who paled rapidly. “If you ignore all that and come back anyway? I‘ll chase you right out. If you refuse to leave? I’ll kill you and leave you in the forest to rot.” Derek left the last until he was right in Jackson’s face, then he snarled, “That’s what it means to be an _omega_ , Jackson! It means you have no place to call home.”

Both adrenaline and fear hovered over Jackson thickly, but he dredged up anger from somewhere and snapped, “Bullshit, McCall’s an omega.”

Derek let out a sarcastic huff. “Scott is practically an _alpha_ , you moron. He’s only an omega by name.” Derek tipped his head back with a wide, insincere smile. “But let’s go with that. Let’s say Scott is an omega—so what?” He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “I respect Scott, I _like_ Scott. I’d let him stay around. You know why?”

Frustrated tears glittered in Jackson’s eyes. He tightened his jaw, mouth flattening into a thin line.

Derek didn’t wait for an answer. “Because he’d turn himself in if he was a threat. He’d take responsibility for what he’d done rather than run away like _an immature, spoiled little brat!_ ” Derek took in a deep breath, stepping away. He lifted his hands as he went. “But go ahead. Be an omega. See how long you last. The door’s over there.”

Angry, Derek turned away and went back to the kitchen. 

He tried to tell himself that he’d known that Jackson was going to be a waste of time—that he’d known that Jackson was going to leave eventually. Suppressing the urge to upend his table of research (all useless, all stupidly in the wrong direction), he looked down. His hands were shaking. Derek sucked in a deep breath, acknowledging the rattling, shaking fear that was all his own.

Four. The count was up to four. Four wolves to abandon him. Four wolves to flee. And for good reason too. 

He wasn’t even half the alpha his mother was. He couldn’t bear to think of what she’d say if she saw him now. Even the idea of it stung, and in ways few things did any more.

Derek lifted his head at the sound of rubber soles scraping over cheap linoleum.

“I don’t…” Jackson swallowed loudly. “I don’t want to be an omega.” 

After a beat, Derek turned around. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Jackson, assessing him carefully. Jackson looked back at him, scared and strangely small, completely miserable and, for once, entirely himself—without bravado, without ego, without pride.

There was something there now, something like potential. Something Derek could work with.

“Then take responsibility,” Derek said quietly.

“I’ve never had to before.” Then, after a beat, Jackson’s face convulsed in a look of intense guilt and pain. He buried his face in his hands and sucked in a breath that sounded too close to a sob.

Jackson was so goddamn young. Derek forgot that about him. He forgot that about him a lot. 

Wincing, Derek closed the distance between the two of them. “What you did as the kanima? That’s on me, not you.” He waited until Jackson looked back at him before poking Jackson in the chest. “But this? This is on you. You hurt a _human_ , Jackson. Not a hunter, not a werewolf, not even a threat. And you don’t even have Matt or Gerard as an excuse this time.” 

Blinking rapidly, Jackson ducked his head and nodded, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He audibly sniffled. Momentarily lost for what to do, Derek stared at his bowed head for a moment longer. 

“Come on.” Derek put a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let’s go.”

-

Jackson dragged his feet. His life was over.

He wanted to resent the way Derek practically marched him into the sheriff station, but, at the same time, he was sort of relieved. He hadn’t known what to do and, for better or worse, his alpha had decided on his path for him.

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t dreading all of this, that he wasn’t hunching into a tighter and tighter ball as he walked.

Derek had gazed at him from the driver side of his Camaro not five minutes ago. “Turn yourself in or run,” he said, reminding Jackson of his meager choices.

Jackson vaguely remembered a quote from something he’d read a long time ago. The right thing wasn’t always the easiest thing, and this? This was the hardest thing to do in the world.

But Jackson had done wrong and, for once, he was going to make amends. If amends meant prison time, so be it.

Strangely calm, Jackson followed Derek into the station. 

The deputy at the desk did a double-take at the sight of Derek, no doubt recognizing him from one of the two times he’d been wanted in the county. He didn’t even glance at Jackson, too busy staring at Derek and hovering a hand over the piece at his side.

Derek ignored it. “Can you get the sheriff, please?” 

“Why?” the deputy demanded. He smelled like adrenaline.

“It’s about his son.” Derek glanced back at Jackson. “Jackson Whittemore is turning himself in.”

The deputy hesitated, the flatly worded sentence breaking through whatever mindset he was in. He looked at Jackson for a half-second before nodding. Without another word, he stood and disappeared to the back offices. 

They waited in front of the counter. Determined to do the right thing or not, Jackson was still wrecked. His calm was fading. He found himself taking in quick, short breaths. When he heard himself, how desperate he sounded, he firmly pulled himself under control, breathing deep and slow. In and out.

In and out.

The deputy came back with a subdued expression. “This way, please.” He gestured for Jackson to follow him.

In and out.

“This is better than running, Jackson,” Derek said quietly as Jackson passed him.

“Whatever.” In and out.

Jackson was seated in an interrogation room. He only got a brief glimpse of Stilinski on the way in, but even that was enough to make his hackles rise. Usually, the man was blandly amiable. The only time he’d seen Stilinski look angry was after they’d found that Stiles and McCall had kidnapped Jackson, so Jackson could sort of enjoy that. Right then, though, he just looked blank and strangely more dangerous.

Of course he was angry. Jackson had his son’s blood on his hands. Why wouldn’t he be pissed?

Letting out a low, shaky breath, Jackson looked around the room. It was a small space—table in the middle, lights flickering faintly, vent wheezing out slightly stale air. He stared at the mirror that everyone and their grandma knew was double-sided. He looked like hell.

Jackson turned his gaze away from it firmly and folded his arms over his chest. He waited. And waited. And waited.

Twenty minutes went by without a single word.

Then, suddenly, the door swung open, bringing in the strong twin scents of fear-sweat and aggression. Jackson’s eyes widened. _Robert._ Already? He hadn’t even- 

Oblivious to Jackson’s thoughts, his adopted father edged around the table quickly and sat down next to Jackson, dropping a briefcase on the table. 

Jackson stared at him, speechless. He’d never seen Robert less than pristine, and, yet, here he was—rumpled suit, coffee stain on his knee, hair disheveled. He was pale too and tight lipped.

Once Robert had situated everything he needed, he said, without hesitation, “Deny everything.”

“There were eleven witnesses,” Jackson said hesitantly. He wiped his sweaty hands against his pants, sinking down slightly in his seat. “One of them was the sheriff.”

Robert palmed his face. “Oh God.” He sounded genuinely distressed.

Jackson withdrew slightly and stared at the wall, all too aware of the quick thump-thump-thump of Robert’s heart next to him. When it didn’t calm down—only sped up alarmingly—Jackson tried to distract him with something else.

“Robert, it’s um-“ The platitudes felt like ash in his mouth. Jackson went into a different direction. “What about an insanity plea?” Work was good. Nothing distracted Robert like work talk.

Robert sighed against his palm before letting his hand fall and tangle with the other. “Those don’t go in until the trial, kiddo. And I’d rather this didn’t get to court.” Suddenly, Robert turned to him, eyes wide and desperate. “Did he at least _provoke_ you?” 

Jackson wilted. “No. He didn’t even know I was in the room.”

“Jackson…” Robert was staring at him like he didn’t know who he was looking at. “What is going on with you?”

Jackson drew back at that, overwhelmed by a strange sense of betrayal. 

Now? His dad was just noticing that he was messed up _now_? Had it really taken an assault for them to realize the extent of his damage? 

He’d been like this for a long time—before the kanima, before werewolves, before even high school—and they didn’t see it. He’d been changed and broken and wrecked, and nobody important even noticed something was amiss until he collapsed on the field. Even then, no one had taken it in, no one had stopped to say, _hey, this Jackson kid we took in is messed up. Maybe he needs help putting his head on straight._

Jackson’s mouth thinned. But that was his fault too, wasn’t it? Ever since he found out he was adopted, he’d made it a battle for Robert and Sheila Whittemore to love him. It was a point of pride for him that he had grown so difficult over the years. Even they had hard time getting in. 

And the, one day, they just… stopped trying. Somehow, that was worse than anything else.

Jackson tightened his hand into a fist, angry and in grief, almost. But before he could say any of the thousand things whipping about in his head, the door opened. 

In walked the sheriff and, with him, reality rushed back in. Jackson’s heart sank. He’d had really hoped that someone other than Stiles’ angry and armed father was handling this situation.

Apparently, Robert agreed. He immediately stood up, lawyer face on. “I really don’t think your presence here is appropriate, considering-”

“Whittemore, shut the hell up,” Stilinski snapped, standing on the other side of the table. He slapped down a folder on its surface. Jackson flinched at the sound, barely able to look at him.

The man was _livid_. He was flushed a deep, deep red, but, for the moment, that anger was aimed directly at Robert. “You’ve been riding my ass for months, saying I’m abusing my position as sheriff to keep my delinquent kid out of prison, and then you pull this? Go screw yourself.”

Jackson stared for a moment, then said quietly, “Robert, what is he talking about?”

Stilinski cocked his head to the side. In response, Robert tipped his chin up slightly, rebuttoning his suit jacket as he sat back down. “I called in some favors.”

“And a lot of good those would have done you. I hadn’t even washed my son’s _blood off my hands_ before you had my former boss calling me and chiding me about priorities, about how an innocent little game of rough housing didn’t stack up against all the murders and arson cases we’ve had recently!” Stilinski sat down. “Then it was the mayor, three of our judges, the goddamn principal of your lousy ass school.” He gestured at Jackson briefly, but kept the bulk of his fury aimed at Robert. “Did you pause to take a breath? Is that why I didn’t get a call from our house representative?”

Robert ducked his head slightly. “Well-”

“Shut up. You and your minions have had your say.” The sheriff pointed a finger. Jackson tensed, realizing it was directed at him. “I want to hear from him.”

Robert’s expression darkened. “He doesn’t have to say anything. You didn’t Mirandize him.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t _arrested_ him either, but I can if that will make you feel better.” 

Jackson was starting to see that the infamous Stilinski sarcasm was genetic. Robert was starting to puff up with anger. He never really responded well to sarcasm.

“Stop,” Jackson said, leaning forward. “I can talk. I waive my right or whatever.” Robert sighed at him, muttering quietly, but Jackson reserved his attention for the sheriff. “What do you want?”

Stilinski’s jaw tightened. “Why did you attack my son?”

Self-hatred twisted in him, choking him.

Jackson couldn’t answer that for a moment. “I don’t know!” he blurted out. “He was just- I was just-” There was no good reason. There was no good reason at all. “My life has been spiraling down the shitter since McCall made first line. It’s just- everything. My life-” Jackson made a vague gesture at the floor. “And Stiles! Stiles just-” Frustrated with his inability to explain where his head was at, he snapped, “Does it even matter?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Stiles’ dad said flatly.

“He’s not the person I should have lashed out at, okay?”

“You shouldn’t lash out at anyone,” Robert interjected, unable to help himself.

“I should have been lashing out at _me_!” Jackson was looming over the table suddenly, trembling and overwhelmed. He didn’t remember standing.

There was a moment of silence. Stilinski was staring back at him. He hadn’t budged an inch and his eyes were infuriatingly blank, like shields.

And then, quietly, Robert asked, “Is this why you quit lacrosse?”

There was a pause. 

“Stiles has a concussion. He had to get six stitches in his head,” Stilinski said suddenly, watching Jackson’s face with renewed interest.

Oh God. Jackson felt himself buckle, collapse inward. He sank back down into his chair. He covered his face with his hands, feeling his eyes heat up. The noise he made was inhuman.

He had swore to himself— _swore_ —that he wouldn’t hurt another person unless he had to, that the only blood on his hands could be blamed on Matt and Gerard.

Derek was right, this was all his fault.

His face hidden, Jackson struggled with his self-control, taking in huge, gasping breaths. 

No one said anything for a long time.

And then, finally, sick of it all, Jackson spoke. “Can you call off the manhunt now? You got me. I don‘t care anymore.” Jackson pulled his hands away from his face. “I’m tired. I’m just… so tired.” 

He was done. Lock him up. He didn’t care anymore.

There was an awkward creak of weight redistributed across a chair. And then-

“There was no manhunt,” Stilinski revealed.

Robert snapped his head up. “What?” 

Stiles’ dad ignored him. “You might as well have stayed holed up in where ever you ran off to. There was no manhunt, no police report, no charges filed.”

Jackson felt numb. 

Robert, on the other hand, looked immensely relieved, like a hundred pound weight had just been taken off his shoulders. Then he looked curious. “Wait, who ended up convincing you?”

Stilinski leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked unimpressed. “Well, he’s about five eleven with a gaping hole in his head.”

Robert looked confused by that description.

“ _Stiles?_ ” Jackson blurted out hoarsely. “Why would he do that?”

Stilinski turned his gaze back to Jackson. “Because he’s under the impression that this was not in-character for you. That you’re stressed and under pressure. That you’ve had a really difficult semester this year. That you deserve leniency.” He stared at Jackson a little longer, expression hard, before his eyes cut back to Robert. “Do you agree with this?”

Robert deflated. “Yes,” he admitted. 

“So do I,” Stilinski said. “Something’s wrong with you, Jackson, and you need to fix it.” Stilinski straightened up in his chair, opening the untouched file in front of him. Briskly and businesslike, he said, “Beacon County has made youth rehabilitation a top priority since 2008. We understand that minors sometimes do stupid things, and that punishing them for those stupid things is not worth instutionalizing them and making them into even worse criminals.” He slid over a pamphlet to Robert. “The county has given me a lot of discretion with this. I’ve chosen not to file charges. Nothing has gone on your record.” Stilinski slid over three papers next, all of them saying the same thing. “This is an acknowledgment of what I just told you. Sign.”

His tone was glacial and brooked no argument. 

They all signed the papers, rotating each sheet until all of them had three signatures—guardian, minor, sheriff.

Stilinski put his copy in his folder before abruptly standing. He glared down at Robert. “Now I can’t force you to do anything about your son, but my department knows what he’s done. The next time he’s caught doing something, there will be no second chances, no leniency—no matter how hard of a year he’s supposedly had.”

Color was just starting to return to Robert’s face. “I understand.” His heart rate was finally dropping to something approaching normal.

Stilinski paused, glancing at Jackson. “Maybe you should get him a therapist.”

Robert frowned at that. “Our family has a therapist.”

“Uh huh. Someone you pay five hundred dollars an hour to stroke your ego? That’s clearly not working for him. Get him someone else. I know you can afford it.” He gestured impatiently to the door. “Now get out of here, you’re wasting my time.”

Wood slid against tile as both Jackson and his adopted father stood and pushed out their chairs. Robert left the room first. He seemed more rattled than Jackson was, but was already palming his cell phone, brandishing his briefcase in front of him like a weapon.

Jackson started to follow him, but then lingered near the door, his heart in his throat. Screwing up the courage, he turned around.

“Is he-” Jackson swallowed hard. “Is he going to be okay?” Not all head injuries could be bounced back from. And he’d-

He’d put some _force_ in it.

Stilinski sighed deeply. “Yeah, kid. He’s going to be okay.”

Jackson nodded once and fled out of the room. He found himself in the general waiting area a few moments later, feeling weightless and not entirely real. Robert was out there too, looking distracted. He pointed at his phone. 

“Need to take this.” He turned his back on Jackson. “Hello? Yes, this is Robert.”

Jackson watched him go, dejected. Work. Work always came first, didn’t it. 

Jackson wasn’t even mad. He just went outside, instinctively following the steady internal rhythm of the one authority figure who’d been with him every step of the way.

Derek was outside, leaning against the wall. He didn’t pretend indifference. No, he was directing all of his weighty attention towards Jackson, every single bit. Under it, under his watchful gaze, Jackson started feeling real again—like his feet were touching the ground. Like he could walk, run, breathe, cry.

Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets. “Did you know they were gonna let me off?”

“No,” Derek said immediately. “But I figured, if they were going to sentence you…” Derek shrugged with deliberate casualness. “It’s not like they can keep a werewolf in jail, right?” Then, cautiously, Derek gave him a small, but hard-won smile. 

Jackson wanted to cry. He laughed instead.

He froze when a hand fell on his shoulder from behind and squeezed.

“You were the one who brought my son in. Robert Whittemore.” Robert leaned forward, extending his free hand with a bright, practiced smile.

Any warmth in Derek’s face completely vanished. “Derek Hale.” He didn’t shake Robert’s hand.

Robert took that in stride, letting his hand fall as he cocked his head to the side. “Hale, that’s right. You chose Durkheim and Sons over my firm to get off on your evading police charge.”

Derek shrugged. “After the DA heard about the vigilantes shooting at me, it was an easy charge to drop.”

“Of course, that was quite the situation,” Robert said with a nod. 

Jackson bristled at that, at the casual brush off of an incident that _nearly killed Derek_. He looked at Derek to see how he was reacting to that, but Derek’s face was carefully blank, eyebrows slightly raised in a bored expression. 

Meanwhile, Robert was completely oblivious. “Is there a reason you chose the New York firm over the one right outside your backdoor?” His small smile widened. “What, you don’t like us?”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t pay lawyers because I like them. I pay them because they’re effective.” And then, because he was a dick, Derek _smiled_. “And your firm completely failed to follow up on my sister’s request for you to look into _the murder of my entire family_ , so excuse me if I look elsewhere for business.”

Robert huffed out a small laugh, the sound tight. “And so the truth comes out. Is that why are you hanging around my son?”

Derek cocked his head to the side. “Excuse me?”

Oh god. Jackson wanted to sink into the floor and _die_.

“I can’t help but notice my son’s borderline illegal activities coincide with your return to Beacon Hills. So I reiterate: why are you hanging around my son? A little bit of payback over business conflicts?”

Derek smiled—with his teeth. “You think I’m Jackson’s problem?“

“Before you came around, he was doing just fine.” 

“Your son was a bully and a broken human being before I met him.” And then, completely ignoring any signal Jackson was emitting to keep him out of this, Derek looked at him directly.“But he’s getting better, isn’t he?”

Jackson ducked his head slightly under his alpha’s gaze. “Yeah.” And then, uncomfortable, Jackson turned to Robert. “Look, Derek’s got my best interests at heart.” For now, he thought. “Can we just let it go?”

The way Robert’s jaw tightened made Jackson think that he very much did not want to let it go. But he shrugged anyways.“I have a meeting anyway.” He directed a fake smile at Derek again. “It was nice meeting you, Derek.”

And then, completely lacking a sense of self-preservation, Robert stuck out his hand again. Derek looked angry enough to rip it off and feed it to him.

Jackson grabbed his wrist and jerked it down. “Jesus Christ, Dad,” he blurted out.

Robert stared at him with wide eyes, mouthing the word that Jackson had accidentally let slip out. Jackson felt heat rise to his face in a rush.

Derek might as well have ceased to exist to the two Whittemore men, but not to the sheriff standing just outside of the door.

“Derek Hale?” Jackson followed Derek’s gaze to Stiles’ dad. When Stilinski had Derek’s attention, he smiled faintly. “I thought that was you. Mind coming in for a few questions?”

Derek paused, considering it. Then he looked back at Robert and Jackson, lingering more on Robert. He pointedly put his hands in his pockets and walked up to the sheriff, disappearing into the station without a second glance.

“God, what a jackass,” Robert breathed. There was no way Derek didn’t hear that. 

How mortifying.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some struggles and battles come and go without blood or injury but are no less important, no less damaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: grief from canon event, author (so very much) does not know how therapy works, discussion of past off screen adultery between minor characters, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it discussion of a suicide attempt by minor character, minor injuries from monster du jour, etc, etc. Lydia’s a bit of a brat, but she has her reasons. Also, BAD GUN OWNERSHIP PRACTICES. Be responsible gun owners.

Derek followed the sheriff back to his office. He may not have been in Stilinski’s actual presence too many times, but his scent was familiar and comforting, a balm on his jagged nerves.

“How is Stiles?” he asked quietly. He had no idea what to do if Stiles got seriously hurt. Or died. Stiles bitched and complained his way through most of their encounters with each other, but he’d stuck around when even Scott would not.

Derek never thanked him for holding him afloat in for two hours, but that didn’t mean Derek wasn’t grateful. That he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat some nights after dreaming about being at the bottom of that pool forever.

“You know, I was under the impression you two didn’t know each other.”

Derek made a face. “We’re… a little more acquainted than that.”

Stilinski snorted at that, but it was with good humor. “That’s what he said. He’s fine, by the way. Already back home and everything.” He let Derek enter the office first, gesturing for him to sit. 

Derek sat, looking up at Stilinski warily. “Did you call me in just to keep me out of a fight, or did you have something else in mind?”

Jackson’s adopted father irritated. He had every single one of Jackson’s worst qualities and none of the self-awareness. Derek knew now that at least half of Jackson’s entitled behavior could be traced back to his upbringing—not that this helped Derek or gave him any ideas on how to deal with the teenager.

Stilinski leaned against the edge of the desk and scratched the back of his neck. “I did have something else in mind, but it’s not quite ready for you yet.” He looked a little sheepish. “I can pull it together in a few minutes. Do you have time to wait or-“

Derek leaned against the chair. “Got nowhere else to be.” That came out a tad more bitterly than he would have liked.

“Ah. Right,” Stiles’ dad said awkwardly. After a beat, he walked out. 

Since he had nothing better to do, Derek spent the time away by going through a massive binder of outstanding warrants, flipping through page after page of tiny squares of faces with no names or identifiers. The deputy who gave it to him said any information he could give would help them out a lot. He’d gazed up at her dubiously, but took it anyway and started flipping pages to the sound of her retreating footsteps.

Faces went by in a blur, each more indistinct than the last—until, of course, he came across one that was more familiar than he’d like. 

He froze on the page, arrested by the picture. He took in a breath. Then another. Then a third.

He had an idea.

Thirty seconds later, he was walking back to the waiting area, binder in hand. He narrowed in on the closest deputy, the one who had almost pulled a gun on him earlier.

Not waiting for a greeting, Derek said, “Did you want to know where they are or what they’re doing?”

The deputy looked down at the binder, then up at his face before saying, slowly, “Well, whereabouts mostly, but any information you have would be-”

Derek dropped the binder on the counter with a heavy thud. “Page twenty-six.” Then he started talking.

Ten minutes of frantic scribbling later, the deputy dropped his pen and took out a map of Beacon Hills. He started making marks all over where Derek told him these people would be. Derek watched him dispassionately.

Most of the warrant dodgers he had information on were skulking around the abandoned warehouse district. The area was big, but Derek ran into them sooner or later. For example, just last month, Isaac had almost lost a leg to the illegal wire fence surrounding the equally illegal living arrangements of a notorious drug runner. 

As an afterthought, Derek warned the deputy about the dogs he had guarding his house. Then he moved onto the next.

Stilinski came up behind him. He mostly just listened. And then- “How do you know all this?” 

Derek paused, considering that. “I walk around a lot at night.” And few conversations were private when super hearing was involved.

Derek went on to give them information on the whereabouts of five more people in their binder. Three deputies—and a quiet, assessing sheriff—surrounded him, watching him as he spoke.

And then, a little uneasily, Derek flipped back to page fifty-seven—his real target.

The man had dark deep eyes and a slightly tipped up chin. He was smirking very slightly. Hackles up, Derek looked away from the picture, telling the deputies that this man was hanging around a building in the warehouse district. He rattled off the address and warned them that he was on private property.

“Are you sure he’s trespassing?” one of the newer deputies asked. He flushed then when he realized where the address was. “Oh, that’s-”

“Yeah,” Derek said. It was one of his family’s warehouses. He rolled his neck slightly before saying, quietly, “The guy is traveling in a… group. So I’d be careful with him.”

Stilinski raised an eyebrow at him. “That why you haven’t run him off yourself? It’s not like he’s a violent offender.” 

Derek looked back down at the picture. Ennis gazed back up at him placidly. Derek hunched his shoulders, trying not to remember being smaller, being a teenager, and being put in his place so damn easily by the alpha. 

The picture lied. It failed to show how tall and wide the man was. He didn’t look inherently bad or predatory or even aggressive. 

Derek knew better.

Stilinski came up from behind, clapping his shoulder. “I did actually have something for you, you know.” He waved off the deputies. “You have enough to work with already. Go, do your job.” That got them moving.

With an indulgent sigh, Stiles’ father led Derek back to the office again. Derek immediately noticed there was something new there, a repurposed evidence box in the middle of Stilinski’s desk. There was a slight scent of smoke hovering around it. 

Derek circled the desk warily. Then he reached out and thumbed the corner of the top before looking up at Stilinski.

The sheriff smiled tightly. “Go ahead.”

Frowning, Derek opened it up. The first thing on the top was a picture of, well, himself. 

Stilinski approached him with a slight cough. “Uh, figured you might find that amusing. Stiles did.” Of course he did. “Still haven’t figured out what was wrong with our camera.” Derek nodded and set it aside. 

It soon became clear what this box was—the remnants of his old life. He almost didn’t want to touch, but he did, handling each piece like it was fine china. He looked at an electricity bill, years and years late. He lifted up and considered a couple of yearbooks one by one. The first was Cora’s, colorful and juvenile. The other was his dad’s high school one—heavy duty and professional looking. 

He set those aside. Tucked into a corner of the box was a fancy lighter with his uncle’s initials on it. Thanks to some chemical in the lighter fluid, the flame came out green instead of yellow. He didn’t have the stomach to see if it still worked. 

And then, in a sealed plastic bag, there was a time capsule. It was once buried at the foot of their porch. Derek didn’t open it, rolling the round container in his hands instead. He hadn’t even remembered its existence, but he could never forget what was inside: A bracelet, never worn, a set of pictures of two smiling teenagers, and a mixtape that had nothing but the sound of a cello.

Derek remembered burying this. He remembered washing the scent of rejection off of him. He remembered staring down at it as dirt slowly obscured it from sight, his mother rubbing a slow circle in the middle of his back.

He set it aside gently with the other things. 

Stilinski cleared his throat awkwardly. “When the, uh, fire was investigated again by our department, we pulled up a lot of things and…” He shifted slightly. “Well, anyway, the case is closed, so I thought you should have them. I know you don’t have a lot left.” 

Derek nodded silently, jaw tight, handling a slightly singed wallet. His dad’s driver’s license was inside. He set it down. 

Then, there, what was that? Way at the bottom of the box was an almost fifteen year old newspaper article. Derek picked it up and started scanning the text. It was written on Laura and her paper route, and how she’d beaten some sort of record. She loved that stupid job.

But she loved that bike more. On certain roads, she could let loose and pedal her way down as fast as she could. Peter had clocked her once at fifty miles per hour. To those not in the know, even her restrained speed was something to talk about—write about, even, in a local newspaper.

There was a picture of her there too, immortalizing Laura and her bike in a state of perpetual obliviousness. Her eyes were shut, her face was tilted up to the sun, and the trees were a blur behind her. The black and white photo was bad quality, so the wolfed out sideburns could be misunderstood as shadows, the hint of teeth as an unfortunate adolescent dental situation. 

Derek’s mother, always so calm and collected, nearly had a meltdown.

After they all had finished freaking out about Laura’s beta form showing up in the local newspaper, the family had collectively wondered how many people looked at this picture and knew what they were seeing. Not many, they figured. 

But enough, Derek and Laura would learn later.

Swallowing heavily, Derek traced the line of her nose and remembered how she’d looked when she left for Beacon Hills. She’d been angry at him for digging in his heels. He didn’t budge and was pissed at her for going. They fought bitterly. When she left, she slammed the door behind her. 

And then, the next time he saw her, she was-

The world was spinning around him too fast. Spinning, spinning, spinning…

Derek sat down, almost missing the chair. He forced his fingers not to clench, not to ruin this precious reminder of his sister.

It was too soon. She- he’d just _had_ her. And now he didn’t. He’d lost her, just like everyone else.

“I’m sorry, son,” Stilinski said quietly, hovering over him protectively as Derek reeled with a renewed sense of loss.

-

Stiles popped out of his dad’s car awkwardly, kicking out his feet before swinging the door shut behind him. His dad came out of the other side, tired looking and in rumpled civilian clothes. Together, they approached the large building in front of them.

“Normally, I _like_ helping kids avoid screwing up their lives,” his dad continued as they entered, his voice hushed. “But this one left a bad taste in my mouth.” 

_This one_ was Jackson and not filing assault charges. His dad couldn’t stop talking about it, like he was feeling guilty, like Stiles wasn’t the one who talked him into letting it go in the first place. 

“You’re a little biased,” Stiles said easily.

His dad snorted. He jostled Stiles’ shoulder with his. “I have to be. Who else is gonna take care of me when I’m old? Gotta butter you up first. Build up that guilty conscience and whatnot.”

“Really feeling the love, Dad.” Stiles smiled, though, hiding it behind the older man’s back as they walked into an elevator. Fortunately, it was empty. 

Stiles pressed the round button for the right floor, maturely refraining from pulling a Buddy and lighting them all up. Such an antic would have gotten a laugh—when he was eight. He was older now. Mature, even. Stiles gazed at the buttons sadly, fingers itching.

Next to him, his dad was humming lightly under his breath, rocking back and forth on his heels. Elevators made him nervous. “I could see what you were talking about, though. That kid’s head is screwed on backwards.”

“Don’t I know it.”

The elevator doors pinged, opening in front of them to reveal the third floor. Although his dad jumped off first, he lingered behind a bit so they could walk down the hallway in step again. He briefly touched Stiles’ shoulder, as if herding him—or just touching him, Stiles didn’t know. They were both jittery with tension and neither one of them knew how to deal with it constructively.

His dad dealt with it by talking about Jackson. “What if he’s faking?”

“Dad, I’ve known him since we were six. His issues right now are real.” And furry. And blue eyed. With _fangs_.

There was a pause. And then- “I’m proud of you,” his dad said warmly. Then, with a hitch, he clarified, saying, “For being so understanding about this. I know he’s not your favorite person.”

“Way bottom of my list right now,” Stiles assured him.

“No offense, but I’m surprised you didn’t immediately advise corporal punishment.”

“I was tempted, not gonna lie. Nothing like a return to good old medieval torture devices to soothe one’s emotional distress, am I right?” Stiles forced a brief, but wide grin. 

They stopped in front of the therapist‘s doors, facing each other. 

His dad was half-smiling at him. “So what stopped you?”

“From being a dick and demanding the Iron Maiden?” Stiles made a non-committal grunt, then rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m just… tired.” He looked at his dad then, eyebrows crunched together. It wasn’t a lie.

The sheriff looked at him for a little while longer, eyes narrowed. Then he opened his arms. “Give me a hug.”

“Wow, are we gonna do this every time?” Even as he complained, he was walking into it, hooking his chin over his dad‘s shoulder and stealing a moment to just breathe him in. He smelled reassuringly of aftershave and coffee and warmth, if warmth could have a smell. “Now. Go away.”

His dad let out an amused little huff, then ruffled what little hair Stiles had left. And then, as per their agreement, Stiles went into the office alone. 

Martin Collins was older than dirt. He was a former teacher and parent twice over. He specialized in youth and grief counseling, and had helped Stiles through some really bad times. 

Collins helped his dad too—a gargantuan, thankless task, if there ever was one. Stiles’ dad kept on insisting he was fine right up to the day Stiles came home and found his father facedown on the floor with an empty bottle of Claudia’s medicine in one hand.

Stiles had screamed at his dad a lot those days, not understanding this betrayal, but Collins did. He saw them through the mess and out the other side. Stiles didn’t exactly see himself as ‘better’, but he had to give Collins major props for his work on Stiles’ dad.

They’d never stop missing his mom, never stop hurting for her presence, but they dealt with it better now. Mostly, anyway.

Collins looked up and smiled at his entrance. The man’s cheeks and nose were permanently red. When Stiles saw him last, Collins’ hair had been very gently thinning out at the top. Now, it seemed to have given up the battle, hairline retreating deeply into his head.

They shook hands and said their pleasantries. Collins even congratulated him on growing into his ears, which startled Stiles into a laugh. 

Stiles settled into the chair across from Collins, nails immediately digging into its arms. Just like old times, then.

Collins settled back down too, squinting at Stiles over his glasses. “So. Why are you here?”

Stiles smiled. He always liked that about Collins. The guy never beat around the bush.

“I needed to talk to someone,” Stiles said quietly. He hesitated, chewing on his lip. Collins’ expression was hard to read. Stiles smiled once, tightly. “If you’re thinking this is a repeat of the, I don’t know, twelve stages of grief? Let me stop you right there.”

Collins propped his chin up on his hand. “According to the Kübler-Ross model, there are five.”

“Just testing you.”

Collins smiled. “It is so good to once again have a patient who doubts me, my expertise, and my very existence.”

“Somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes,” Stiles said easily. His mouth was smiling, but his heart was racing. Stiles looked around the office in search of something to say. 

This wasn’t some sterile environment. It was nice, homey. There was mail all over the walls—postcards, artwork, letters written by child hands. The couch off to the side had a hand knitted blanket tossed over one end. A small fridge hummed away in a corner under a table flooded with envelopes. There was a smaller desk off to the side with paint all over it. 

Stiles remembered sitting at it years ago, angrily splashing black over a tiny gold stick figure with blue eyes.

Stiles dragged his gaze back to Collins. The office was even more of a fire hazard than it was when he was last in there. Speaking of which… “I thought you retired.”

“Well. You know how that goes.” Collins shrugged. “You think you know your own mind, only to find out you haven’t the foggiest. Have you ever experienced that?”

“Oh, nice segue. Ten out of ten.”

“Why thank you.” Collins dipped his head slightly, as if in contemplation. A minute later, he looked up, expression kind. “But deflection is quite a waste of our time, isn’t it?” He made a slight gesture at Stiles. “I mean, I am under the impression that it was you who asked for my services, not your father and not your school.”

Stiles felt himself flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just- habit. It’s habit. I’m not used to being… honest. With people.” Stiles made a face. “I try, but sometimes it’s just safer to keep these things to myself.”

Collins raised a nearly nonexistent eyebrow. “Safer for whom?”

“Everyone. Myself.” Stiles forced himself to shrug, to sound distant from it all. “Emotionally as well as physically, I think.” There was a pause, and then, sheepishly, he whispered, “I don’t even know where to start.”

Collins tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk and then shifted forward in his seat a little. “Let’s start… backwards. Tell about the incident that brought you here.”

-

Jackson couldn’t believe this was a thing that was happening. He hadn’t been in the backseat of a car since he was six. What the hell.

After sulking for five minutes, he shot forward, leaning through the two front seats. “Why are you rolling over for the sheriff?” he demanded.

In the passenger seat, Robert made a face at the street. “Honestly? He’s intimidating.” He pointed at something through the windshield. “Left, honey.”

Behind the wheel, Sheila sighed, but nevertheless turned left. “I’m not going to get lost. I _never_ get lost,” she muttered under her breath. This was an ongoing battle between them. Sheila was practically a walking, talking GPS whereas Robert just liked to think he was one. Control freaks, the both of them.

“So?” Jackson looked back at his dad. “You’re a lawyer. Sue him.”

“But the sheriff has a point.” Robert put his hand over where Jackson’s adoptive mother was grasping the stick. After a beat, Sheila looked over at him and smiled. “Your mother and I do make our sessions about us. But, to be fair, I have not met one parent who didn’t consider their kid practically an extension of themselves. Even Stilinski’s like that.”

“That’s why us parents freak out when you grow up and start your own lives,” Sheila said brightly, looking at Jackson through the rearview mirror. “We feel left behind.”

They rolled into the parking lot. Sheila pulled over under a clump of flowering trees. Then, as a pair, Robert and Sheila turned around to look back at Jackson. 

“This is all about you, champ,” Sheila said brightly. “Dr. Bishop comes highly recommended. You know the office number, right?”

Disgruntled, Jackson pulled the seat belt off. “Yeah.”

Robert chewed on his lip for a moment before offering, quietly, “Want us to come with you?”

Jackson opened the door. “No thanks, Robert.” 

Sheila’s smile turned brittle and dim. Jackson flinched from the sight, blindly pushing out of the car quickly. But, as fast as he walked, he couldn’t escape their quiet, hissed conversation.

“One step forward, two steps back.”

“It could be worse, right?”

“My wife, the eternal optimist.”

Hating the sense that they were ganging up on him, even if only benignly, Jackson hurried up, glad to put a door between him and his parents. 

Their relationship was even more awkward now that it was before. He was being punished by them—of course he was. But it was with the clumsy, heavy handedness of people who didn’t really know how discipline worked. They took away his car, put him on a curfew, and enrolled him into an online anti-bullying course. 

Then they took a giant step back and pretended nothing happened. They never even tried to talk to him about why he’d attacked one of his classmates. And why would they? They knew from experience that trying to talk to him directly about it would only lead to yelling and tears.

That’s why the shrink got paid the big bucks.

After checking the office number, Jackson let himself in, presenting himself to the receptionist. When she went to inform the shrink of his arrival, Jackson looked around the waiting room. Everything was sharp and elegant, and, more to the point, pricey. 

A moment later, Bishop and the receptionist came out. Bishop was young, but a good fifteen years older than him; beautiful, but in a way that didn’t invite familiarity. Her warm brown eyes were just a few shades lighter than her skin and she wore only the slightest hint of makeup.

The shrink greeted him with a firm handshake and a small, professional smile, and then took him back to her office and sat him down.

They talked for a little bit about very shallow, neutral topics. She asked him about his life—his likes, dislikes. His hobbies and dreams. Within minutes, Jackson could breathe a little easier. He was his own favorite subject after all.

It was harder than he thought it would be to talk around the werewolf thing, around the jagged edges of who he thought he was.

Jackson shifted in the chair restlessly, then looked down at his watch. “It’s been forty-five minutes. You got what you need yet or what?”

Bishop cocked her head. “What do you mean?” she asked. She had a soft, faintly English accent.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re the shrink. What’s my psychosis?” When Bishop merely narrowed her eyes, he huffed out a dismissive laugh. “What? They don’t train you in that?”

“You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“Do what?” Jackson smirked, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Demand excellence?”

“That. And deflect. And verbally attack.”

Jackson laughed once, sharp, and looked away. “Oh boy.”

“Oh boy, indeed.” Bishop looked down at her notes and wrote something down. The scratching noise of her pen was nearly deafening.

Jackson wiped his sweaty palms off on his jeans, feeling oddly squirmy and anxious. He hadn’t had a one-on-one session since he was thirteen. He remembered a lot of sorting, coloring, and casual conversation. Not this… ceaseless scrutiny. 

He pressed her again for her input. “So, what? I have self-esteem issues? I have delusions of grandeur? I’m a narcissist?” He started off the list mockingly, but, the further he went down, the angrier he got. “I lash out at people to prevent human connection? Come on, where do you guys get this shit?”

She seemed mildly interested in that. “Commentary from previous therapists?”

“You guys are so fucking eager to throw labels at me, but you never…” Jackson grinded his teeth together, trying to push down the anger. “You never tell me how to fix. _Anything_.”

“Do you think something about you needs to be changed?” Bishop leaned forward, visibly intrigued. “What do you want to fix?”

Jackson shook his head once, thinking about his blindness, his frustration, his inadequacy…

After a beat, he looked up, meeting her gaze. “Everything.”

-

Lydia and her father were out on the town once more, dining at some pricey restaurant that one of Jeff’s clients insisted was simply ‘to die for’. Jeff spent most of these outings introducing Lydia to his business associates, which was something she actually enjoyed. 

She didn’t have to talk long before they went from appeasing her as a child treating her as an adult and as someone to have intelligent conversations with. Lydia liked to think she didn’t need Jeff’s approval on anything, but something in her hummed happily when he proudly watched her out think the best of his coworkers. 

Lydia thanked the man who seated them before looking at the table. Reservation for three, apparently. “Are we waiting for Philippe?” she asked, preemptively draping the fine linen napkin over her lap.

Philippe Monroe was yesterday’s dining companion and he’d made noises about wanting a repeat. Philippe, a fine smart man in general, had a nasty case of the butterfingers. Lydia had more things dropped on her yesterday than she ever had before. She wanted to be prepared.

Jeff nearly choked on the complimentary glass of water. “N-no, we’re waiting for someone else.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lydia’s eyes narrowed. She knew her father well enough to know when he was anxious. For example, she knew how he acted when he was about to meet a boss or superior. He usually smoothed back his hair and checked his suit for wrinkles before asking Lydia how she thought he looked. Then he’d tap tap tap away at the table until they arrived. Jeff always insisted on being there first.

But what was this now? Her father was anxious, sure, but this was a different sort of nervousness. Sweat was beading on his upper lip despite the strictly controlled room temperature. He was twisting the tablecloth between his fingers until the skin turn white. Then he would let go and do it again. And, finally, the biggest and most damning piece of evidence was the way he kept avoiding eye contact with her by burying himself into a menu.

Jeff tended to think that, if you needed to look at a menu to figure out what to eat, you shouldn’t be eating there in the first place.

Lydia was so intent on decoding her father’s body language that she didn’t notice the arrival of their third until her nose was assaulted with sweet smelling perfume. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

At the sound of that familiar voice, Lydia snapped her attention up and away from her father. A woman stood above them, expression softly abashed. She had a rich olive skin tone and long luscious dark hair. Her cupid’s bow mouth pursed slightly as she tried not to smile at Jeff. Jeff, in return, nearly knocked the table over in his haste to stand, grinning foolishly at her as he pulled out her chair.

Breathless and in disbelief, Lydia fell against the back of her chair hard. Natalie. Natalie Truman.

“You’re just on time,” Jeff lied, hearts in his eyes. He went back to his own seat, grinning wider when he turned to see Natalie still watching him.

Lydia never felt more like a third wheel in her entire life.

As if Natalie heard that thought, she dragged her eyes from Jeff to Lydia. Her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Hello, Lydia.”

Feeling distinctly betrayed, Lydia swallowed once before sitting up straighter. “Hello, homewrecker,” she said regally, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Jeff’s smile fell. “Lydia, don’t make a scene.”

Lydia ignored them to rearrange her napkin—lifting it from her lap and folding it in precise triangles until it looked near indistinguishable from untouched napkins on the table. 

Natalie turned her Bambi eyes to Jeff. “You didn’t tell her.”

“If I told her, she’d be on a plane back home already,” Jeff said defensively. And then, to Lydia, he snapped, “Sit.” 

Lydia had risen to her feet. “I’m not hungry.” She could find her own way back too. GPS was a wonderful thing.

Jeff grabbed her wrist before she could leave. “ _Sit_.”

Lydia stared down at him. She wanted to be angry—angrier. She wanted to be defiant and rebellious, but all she could muster up was a squirmy uncomfortableness, like when she’d taken apart his car radio to see how it worked. She’d put it back together, but that didn’t erase that look on his face—like disappointment, but worse.

After a beat, Lydia sat down, stone faced, flicking his hand off of her.

Jeff was turning red. “You have no right to have that kind of attitude right now, Lydia,” he hissed. Natalie looked uncomfortable.

“I have every right,” Lydia snapped, glaring at him. “You ambushed me. You lulled me into a false sense of security.” She gestured sharply at Natalie. “What part of _I never want to see her again_ didn’t you understand?”

Natalie stared at her lap miserably. Jeff seemed more effected by that than by anything else because he made a big show of sitting up straight and forcing a smile.

“Give me one meal, Lydia. One meal,” he said tightly, but calmly. “And, for the love of god, _be polite_.”

Just then, a waiter came by to take their orders.

It was a long meal. The ticket time was relatively sort and the meal was as delicious as was boasted, but Lydia could hardly enjoy any of it—not with Natalie sitting right next to her.

Lydia amused herself by taking potshots at her whenever she could. Some were so subtle, even her father didn’t catch them, like when Lydia suggested that Natalie steal some food from her dad’s plate, since she was ‘comfortable with that sort of thing’. 

Others were not, like when Lydia asked if, while job hunting, Natalie put her immense skills _under the desk_ on her résumé as well.

Natalie flushed angrily at that, but didn’t rise to the bait. Jeff looked like he was going to choke.

When Lydia wasn’t making digs at either of them, or both, she made no secret of the fact that she was quite busy on her phone—and, yes, she _did_ need to do that right now. 

Somewhere around the introduction of the main course, she answered Jackson’s texts about when she was coming back home, adding in that she was probably going to go home early at this rate. Jackson, of course, was thrilled.

At the end of the same course, she was having a lively back and forth with Danny about the local fires. They always had wildfires in their area, but this seemed like less ‘idiot throws a smoke outside their car’ and more like arson. Danny was obsessed.

Around dessert, she opened up her email to see a new message complaining at length about someone named Sophie Leveux. She got an email from Allison once every two weeks, IP and email addresses different every time. Even if the email address was nonsensical or Allison forgot to sign her name, Lydia always knew it was her. Allison had a certain charming, if grammatically incorrect, turn of phrase.

Lydia was always pleased to receive these emails, even if a good seventy percent of the message didn’t make sense to her. Strange rants or not, the continued communication meant her best friend was still alive. 

She got a new text from Stiles by the end of dessert, which, of all the messages she sifted through during that miserable hour, was the one that surprised her. Lately, Stiles seemed oddly reluctant to talk to her. On her part, she tried to back off, obey his wishes, half-dreading bitter commentary about the friend zone—not that Stiles ever talked about the friend zone. But it was no secret that Stiles had an epic, planet-sized crush on her, just as it was no secret that there was no way that was happening, ever. 

Frowning, she opened up his text. _This is totally in fashion now._ The text came with a picture of Stiles with a bucket on his head. Lydia smiled behind her hand, both amused and relieved.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she texted back quickly. _You fail at fashion consulting. I am not giving you a letter of recommendation._

Then she sent it and looked at the picture again, biting on the inside of her cheek at the sight of his goofy, unrepentant smile and the jaunty tilt of his bucket.

Stiles was really the worst. 

Jeff sensed the slight lifting of her mood and tentatively smiled. He cleared his throat and stretched his hand across the table. Natalie smiled shyly and took it before looking at Lydia with a cautious expression.

“So,” Jeff started, haltingly. “Lydia, the reason why you’re here is…” Natalie and Jeff looked at each other, then back at Lydia. “We have an announcement.” Natalie’s perpetual caution was being burned through by happiness and her father was practically giddy, which was way out of the usual on his part.

Deductive reasoning, like most things, wasn’t rocket science.

“You’re engaged,” Lydia concluded, bored. She smiled widely, fakely, turning her attention back to Natalie. “Poor planning on your part, if you ask me. I mean, you already know he’s an adulterer.”

Natalie’s smile fell. They let go of each other. A mean part of Lydia was absolutely thrilled over how easily she’d burst their bubble.

But Jeff was furious. “ _Lydia_ -”

Natalie shook her head at him. “No. It’s okay. She’s allowed to be mad.” Natalie looked back at her, flattening a hand over her chest. “I get it. I was instrumental in your parents breaking up. You feel quite strongly about it, I know. I deeply apologize for any harm I’ve done to you, but what’s done is done. I just hope we can work past this someday.” She smiled gently. “I think we have a lot in common.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Such as?” she challenged. She knew Natalie well enough to know that they were about as different as night and day.

But Natalie had a ready response. “Such as our interest in shoes!” She smiled wider, happy. “Your father told me how much you loved the pair he got you for prom. I picked then out for you.”

Lydia thought back to those cute pumps she’d instantly take a shine to. “Well. If I knew that, I would have thrown them at his head.”

“ _Lydia_.”

“Bite me,” she snapped at him. They glared at each other hotly.

Natalie cleared her throat nervously. “That aside, you liked them, right? Did they go well with your dress?”

“Well enough,” Lydia said, voice clipped.

“Great.” Natalie looked around, clearly trying to think of what to say. But she only had one card in her deck. Ignoring Jeff’s signal to back off, she went on, saying, “So how was it? Your prom?

Lydia gazed at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, she said, “I was brutally attacked in the middle of the lacrosse field. How was yours?”

Natalie’s face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She slumped into her chair, defeated as her one card went up in flames.

They finished their dessert in a tense silence.

-

It was nearly lunch time when Derek approached the Stilinski’s back door. He meant to come yesterday night. But, by the time he realized it was near midnight, he was exhausted and in no mood to get up and go to Stiles’ house to run the insomnia out of him.

He hadn’t visited Stiles in days, not since what Jackson did, and he was feeling bad about it. But it was probably for the best. Who knew what Stiles thought of him now? If Derek came in the middle of the night again, Stiles just might shoot him. He was cold blooded enough to do that, if he thought it was necessary.

But Derek couldn’t _not_ talk to Stiles about this. Though there was probably a better time to sneak into Stiles’ house than at ten o’clock and during his morning practice.

Except Stiles wasn’t at morning practice, was he?

Just then, Stiles slid into the kitchen on his socks, stopping just before the fridge. He grabbed the entire carton of orange juice, and went out with it, popping the cap as he walked away. Five seconds later, he was backtracking to the kitchen, staring at Derek with a strange expression, as if he wasn’t quite sure if Derek was real.

“Wow, you break and enter in the daylight too, huh?” After a beat, Stiles took a long swig of the juice.

Confused, Derek let the back door close behind him with a click. “What?”

Stiles smirked. “Nothing. Just thought you were allergic or something.”

“To the _sun_?” Derek had barely been in Stiles’ presence for thirty seconds, and he was already feeling that familiar prickle of irritation. “I’m a werewolf, not a vampire.”

“Same difference.” Stiles took another long swig from the orange juice before setting it down on the table. “So, what’s up, Buttercup?” 

Despite himself, Derek ducked his head, snorting softly to himself. When he looked up again, Stiles was staring at him with a disturbed expression. 

“Oh god. You laughed. It’s the sunlight, isn’t it. Quick, jump into a closet!” Stiles went as far as to open the cupboard, as if to usher Derek into safety.

He was an ass, as always. Some things never changed, no matter the circumstance.

“My sister used to call me that,” Derek admitted quietly. Stiles’ expression fell slightly in understanding and sympathy. Uncomfortable under that kind of scrutiny, Derek pushed on, saying, “So. How are you.”

Derek was sort of expecting backlash—a prideful response, a sarcastic one. A completely justified demand for Derek to mind his own damn business. But Stiles just lifted a shoulder, shrugging. 

“Concussed, banned from summer practice for a week, and hanging onto my place on the first line by the skin of my teeth.” His eyebrows drew inward. “Why? How are you?”

Derek ignored the second question and said, tensely, “I came to apologize for what happened to you.” He ducked his head. “I played a role in it and I-“

“Wait,” Stiles interrupted, lifting a hand. “Did you tell Jackson to slam my head into a locker?”

“I- no.” 

“Then I fail to see how this involves you. _At all_.”

Derek scowled at him. “Why can’t you just-“

Stiles took a step towards him, a laugh on his lips. “ _Derek_. You can’t claim responsibility for things you can’t control. You can’t make Jackson be less of an asshat anymore than you can make Scott submit to you as a beta. So just… stop.”

Stiles was… smiling. 

Stiles was smiling and gazing at him with wide eyes and an earnest expression. He looked healthier and calmer, like he was finally settling after everything that had happened. That dragging sickness smell of his was a mere memory. The only thing detracting from this image of good health and sanity was the square patch of a bandage high on his forehead, purple circling it in a livid bruise.

Derek stared at it for a long moment before shrugging, defeated. “Okay.” He abruptly turned around, reaching for the handle of the back door before pausing and saying, quietly, “But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were hurt. Again.”

“Yeah. Well…” Stiles seemed uncomfortable with that. “Okay, but do me a favor? Leave through the front door like a normal person?”

And that? That, Derek could do.

Stiles walked him out, muttering about needing to get something anyway. They walked only part of the way together. Once they cleared the lawn, Stiles turned left and went for the mailbox, pulling it open. As for Derek, he paused on the sidewalk alone and lifted his nose slightly, smelling something strange but unable to put his finger on it.

Just then, a red husky ran up and did a circle around Derek, yipping excitedly before tearing off three houses down the street. A leash trailed behind her, whipping around wildly like a flag. A young boy chased after the dog, flushed and upset. 

Stiles barely reacted as the kid raced past him. “Hi Jessie. Bye Jessie,” he said as he sorted through his mail. This was clearly a common occurrence. 

Panting excitedly, the husky waited in place on the neighbor’s lawn until Jessie was about an arms width away and bending over to grab the leash. Then she barked once, sharply, before darting back the way she came. Jessie’s pained groan was deep and heartfelt as they started up the chase again.

Feeling for the kid, Derek stepped in the dog’s way. “Hey. _Stop_.” He threaded just a shred of alpha command into his voice. The husky abruptly skidded to a halt in front of him, sitting down promptly with a rolling, questioning sort of whine. 

Wheezing, Jessie jogged the rest of the way over. He exhaustedly scooped up the leash while the dog was distracted and gazing up at Derek with huge brown eyes. “Wow, thanks. She doesn’t usually obey that command.” 

Jessie’s comment was wry and the way he dug a hand into the dog’s fur was more affectionate than irritated. When Derek didn’t immediately reply, the kid grinned up at him, pale face flushed red all the way to his ears, near hidden by wispy, pale blond hair.

“Regular dog whisperer, he is,” Stiles piped up distractedly. Derek scowled at him just in time to see Stiles pull one envelope out of the pile of the rest. Either oblivious or ignoring Derek’s irritation, he waved it at Derek questioningly. “Dude, why am I getting your mail?”

Derek frowned and closed the distance between the two of them. Then, wordlessly, he snatched it out of Stiles’ hand, opening the envelope quickly as he put a few steps between them. He was distantly aware of Jessie inching towards Stiles and muttering to him about his ‘serial killer face friend’.

The world whited out a little when Derek read the note, absorbed it, and understood its dire implications.

 _Long time no see, Derek. We should chat._

Under the text was a sharp edged triskelion, identical to the one on the Hale house door.

After staring down at the note blankly for a moment, horrified, Derek lifted it to his face, breathing in deeply. The alpha scent was fresh, minutes old.

He turned abruptly to the two humans, demanding, “Did you see who was at the mailbox?”

Stiles and Jessie shared a long look. “Yes?” Stiles said hesitantly. 

Derek straightened up slightly, tone darkening. “Who?”

Stiles scratched his jaw, squinting. “The usual guy?”

“Usual guy?” Jessie said in an undertone, squinting up at Stiles.

“You know, the attractive one? Suspiciously so?” When Jessie looked up at him, expression as blank as concrete, Stiles flailed a bit before clarifying, snapping out, “Tall, blond, intense looking?” Stiles gave up on Jessie quickly with an impatient gesture. “Why am I asking you, you’re useless.”

Of all the alphas to stand outside Stiles’ house. Derek felt dizzy. “He’s not a mailman,” he said past the rushing noise in his ears. 

Stiles cocked his head to the side. “You know who he is?” He frowned deeply, then shook his head. “Wait, of course he’s a mailman. Why else would he be at our mailbox?”

Jessie shrugged. “Seems logical to me.”

Derek saw red. “You’re so oblivious,” he snapped at Stiles, raging. “You all think this is a game. You’re just going to get everyone killed!” Then, teeth grinding together, he turned around, crumbling the note into a ball.

As he stalked away, he heard Stiles tell the boy, “My friend’s, uh, super intense about World of Warcraft.”

-

Stiles threw himself at the couch, groaning. He’d had to talk Jessie out of his fascination with Derek Hale. Hell, if Stiles had been half that suspicious and pushy when he was that age, then he totally understood why he got kicked out of Boy Scouts. And soccer. And why his hall monitor badge had been ripped out of his hands on his very first day of the job. 

But Stiles was pretty sure he was successful in convincing Jessie that Derek was a grumpy bear who lived in a basement. There was nothing cool about that.

And there was nothing cool about the one-eighty Derek suddenly pulled on him either, the ass. One minute, he was acting almost human, and the next… well, he was still human, but an incredibly douche-y one.

To make matters worse, Stiles’ never-ending, low riding headache was back. The aspirin had officially worn off, which was _ticking_ him off. But what was ticking him off the most was the fact that Jackson was so goddamn stuck up that his alpha had apologized before he did.

That was it. Stiles was done. He officially hated everyone.

His phone beeped, informing him that he had a message from Derek Hale.

“Go fall off a cliff,” he told his phone, lowering it without even reading the text. And then, unable to resist temptation, he lifted it back up, opened up the text eagerly.

_I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you._

Stiles stared at the message blankly before making a low, whining sound.

“No,” he bleated, shaking his phone. “Don’t do that!” Stiles wanted to be mad at him so much. It would feel _so good._

He scowled at the contact details of Derek “I’m Suddenly Okay With Admitting Fault” Hale before sighing indulgently and texting back.

_Does that note have anything to do with the Warning of the Thirteen?_

Stiles chewed on his lip. Then, three minutes later- _The alphas know I’ve been circling them._

And then, two minutes later, _Be careful._

Stiles was floored. He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to think. It all just sort of floated in his mind, tetherless. Derek circling alphas. Alphas circling Derek. Alphas circling them all. 

And, most importantly… Alphas knowing where Stiles lived. Alphas knowing where Stiles’ _dad_ lived.

Dread curled up in him like a hand around his heart. Stiles pressed his phone to his chest, staring up at the ceiling. He vibrated in place for a moment before he hurled himself off the couch and up the stairs to his room. 

He dug deep into his closet and pulled out a card box, deceptively marked _winter clothes_. With a slight oomph of exerted effort, he moved it over to the bed and set it down. He pulled the flaps open, reveal a jar of kanima venom, three jars of mountain ash, several boxes of small sample wolfsbane (for antidote purposes only), a wolfsbane rope, one of his dad’s handguns (a relic and a heirloom from his own father), and, lastly, one of about six boxes of Argent-grade wolfsbane ammunition.

Swallowing grimly, Stiles grabbed the gun. It was a six round revolver and ancient. It was also never loaded.

But it was loaded now. Stiles cringed, thinking of what his dad would think, but put the loaded handgun behind some books on his desk.

Then, looking over the rest of his stash, he frowned. 

Ten minutes later and laden down with three boxes of wolfsbane rounds and a jar of mountain ash, Stiles got into his car and drove to the McCall house. He knew from some ill thought out snooping that Melissa had a handgun too and would definitely need some alpha-stopping firepower.

Because, if they knew where wee little _Stiles_ was? Well, damn. They probably had Scott pegged in the first half hour.

It only took a couple of minutes to get over to Scott’s house. As he pulled in, he registered the fact that Melissa’s car was out front, but she usually worked at this time of the day. It was not unknown for her to surrender her keys to Scott while she was busy. So he figured, if anyone was home, it was Scott. 

Stiles let himself in with his key. He could deal with Scott. Stiles probably _should_ deal with Scott. Stiles needed to apologize first, then he needed to rip Scott a new one for keeping Stiles out of the loop, because, really? Had no one learned that secrets were bad? 

Scott wasn’t home. Melissa, on the other hand…

Just as Stiles pulled the gun out of its hiding spot, a fake clock, Melissa swung and almost hit him in the head with a bat. _Again_. 

They engaged in some mutual flailing and shouting at each other before identities were sorted out. 

Melissa let the bat drop, but not her anger—especially not when she saw what Stiles was handling. “Stiles! You should not know where that is!” she yelled, yanking her gun out of his hands. As she did, she accidentally kicked the box of ammunition and swore. She hopped away from it and looked down. “What the hell are these?”

“Wolfsbane rounds. Allison gave me a bunch before she left.” She’d actually shoved them under his pillow. He’d almost knocked himself when he flung himself on his bed after school. “Also mountain ash, which is also a must have.”

Melissa was starting to give him a strange look. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“What? What’s wrong? Everything, everything’s wrong,” Stiles said quickly. “Well, not wrong _wrong_. But they could be wrong. Things were bad, but they could always get worse. You gotta be able to protect yourself.”

Melissa set the gun aside before taking his shoulders in her hands. “Honey, you’re talking a mile a minute.”

He was. And he could barely breathe. He looked up at the ceiling, taking in huge, gulping breaths, not daring to look down until he felt a little more ready to talk.

When he finally made eye contact with her, Melissa’s forehead was deeply creased. “Is there a reason you’re panicking?”

Stiles blew out a breath before saying, purposefully slow, “How much do you know about werewolves?”

“Scott told me… a lot.” The way her nose crinkled made him think Scott had, perhaps, told her too much for her tastes. “Alpha, beta, omega. The bite. The full moon.”

“Did he tell you how to protect yourself?” Stiles pulled away from her slightly, blindly reaching out a hand to lean on the couch. “Because that’s definitely an important part of Werewolf 101 and…” Stiles trailed off at the feeling of fabric moving smoothly under his hand. He looked down at the couch, seeing a scarf. Distracted, he picked it up. 

After a beat, he lifted it, showing it to Melissa. “Isaac’s?” His voice was a little hoarser than he would have liked, a little vulnerable than he would have preferred.

Melissa’s frown never faded. “He was over here,” she said with a nod, crossing her arms over her chest. “Hanging out with Scott. Studying too.”

Stiles absorbed that before nodding, staring at the ground with a tightening jaw. So. Scott preferred hanging out with his werewolf-bro over his actual bro, huh?

And why wouldn’t he. Scott had tried to help him and Stiles had ripped him a new one for it. And yet… Okay, Scott didn’t deserve to be yelled at, sure, but Stiles’ anger wasn’t unreasonable, was it? Scott didn’t save him from Gerard. Scott didn’t protect him from Jackson. Scott didn’t even tell him about the alphas in town. Stiles had to learn it from Derek, King of Withheld Information.

“I just…” Stiles looked up at her. “Help me hide the rest of these, okay?”

Melissa seemed dubious, but, eventually, she nodded, putting the gun back in its hiding place. 

Stiles spent the next twenty minutes hiding the extra bullets in other places around her house with her approval. Well, approval was a strong word. She kept following him around with a frown, interjecting commentary and opinions only to keep them away from food and the reach of grasping hands of younger, visiting cousins. 

When he was done hiding the jar of mountain ash at the top of her closet, he settled back on his heels, turning to face her with a tight smile. “Well. That’s that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Uh huh.” She reached out a hand. “I don’t want you driving home like this. Keys. All of them.”

Stiles blinked at her, confused. “I can totally drive. Like this,” he said awkwardly.

“Keys,” she said again, expression blank.

Stiles pulled them out of his pocket, but stopped just short of handing them over. “How will _you_ get home?”

“I’ll walk. Now, for the last time…” She made an exaggerated, grabby hand motion, and, finally, Stiles gave up his keys.

They got in Stiles’ jeep. Melissa needed a few seconds to relearn a stick shift, but it was enough time for Stiles to look at himself and realize that, yeah, maybe he did need her to step in. He was deeply flushed, his heart was racing, and his feet were tapping restlessly on the ground. 

His hypervigilance problem had actually gotten better since the end of the term, but the whole ‘alphas totes know where you live’ thing had ruined any progress he’d made. 

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Melissa said quietly, patting his knee. He smiled at her profile, appreciating that. 

They sat together in relatively peaceful quiet as Melissa negotiated the streets with his car. It wasn’t until they were a street light away that Melissa said anything at all.

She seemed reluctant to bring it up at all. “Scott told me everything is safe now. That no one is in danger.” She paused, and then said softly, “That was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Stiles bit down on the instinct to back up the fib, to downplay the seriousness of the threat. And, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Melissa’s mouth thinned. “One of these days, he’s gonna have to learn that I’m the parent, not him.”

The rest of the ride was made in silence.

-

“Mr. Patel.” 

The man looked over from where he was tense and trying not to stare at the corner of the room. There were bags under his brown eyes and his dark skin was slick and shiny with sweat. His lips parted. “You again,” he croaked.

Scott smiled tightly and stepped closer to his hospital bed, taking his hand. Patel was wheezing for breath and in obvious pain. Scott had overheard the nurses talking about his heart monitor going wild several times in the last day. He wondered how many times the poor man had been bitten under their oblivious care.

Scott drained the pain away as best as he could. 

Patel seemed to settle, not quite calming but certainly getting a better hold on himself. He swallowed several times before saying, thickly, “Do you see it?”

That was the first time he’d ever asked Scott that question. Mostly, the man remained mute and haunted.

After a pause, Scott shook his head. “No, I don’t.” Patel’s face fell. Scott tightened his hold on the man’s hand slightly until Patel was making eye contact again. “But… I _know_ it’s there.”

Patel looked relieved to know he wasn’t crazy. He hung onto Scott’s hand like Scott was the sole rope keeping him from plunging into a deep and dark abyss.

Scott had been doing this for three days now and he was afraid that maybe that colorful comparison was all too true.

Scott sat with Patel until the unbearable, weighty tension in the room left. Today was a day of first, because that was the first time it ever left in his presence. It was a huge relief. He could breathe easier in its absence, like a vise around his lungs had just eased up. Patel took in deep, shaky breathes as well, finally falling back to relax against his bed. 

“It’ll come back,” he said though, mouth twisting at the ceiling. “It always comes back.” 

Scott’s heart sank at the bad news. “Then I’ll stay.”

Patel immediately shook his head. “No. No, you won’t.” He swallowed heavily until his throat clicked. “You’re a child and I- I don’t want it to start looking at you too.” Patel’s face creased in a painful, small smile. “Thank you for all you’ve done. Really. But please, leave. Leave and don’t come back.” He sighed and turned his head away. “Leave or I’ll call the nurses.”

Scott had never heard someone sound so much like defeat before. Unhappily, he stood and obeyed Patel’s wishes, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Deaton looked up from where he was sitting, arms crossed over his chest. “Did you learn anything new?”

Scott paused. He was surprised to see his boss, but not surprised that the vet had figured out what Scott was doing between the hours of summer school and work. Even Isaac hadn’t figured it out, and they were practically connected at the hip, thanks to the upcoming exam. But, then again, Deaton could always read him like an open book. 

Sighing, Scott nodded once and pulled away from the door. “I can tell when it’s in the room. It’s not just scent.” Scott made a pained expression, remembering it. “I can feel it. When it’s in the room? It’s like a weight. The weight of eyes. The weight of intent.” Scott looked back at the room and said softly, “And Mr. Patel said it always comes back.”

“But it didn’t attack when you were in the room,” Deaton guessed. Scott nodded. Deaton sighed, visibly trying to put it together, “So. It’s invisible, until you are bitten, of course. It has a scent, tracks solo prey, and has one foot in this world and the other in the next.”

“And it doesn’t like to be looked at.” 

Deaton seemed to freeze at that, like he’d just thought about something concerning, but, before Scott could ask what was on his mind, Scott was shoulder checked by a surgeon in green scrubs. Scott stumbled back, more surprised than hurt.

She didn’t apologize, too focused on her cell phone conversation.

“Look, I can’t do this right now, I’m at work.” The surgeon came to a dead stop in the middle of the hallway. Her hand reached out blindly, trying to find the door knob of a supply room—for privacy, Scott guessed.

The hand fell, grasping forgotten at the new turn in the conversation. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You haven’t even heard my side of the-“ She sucked in a deep breath before saying, with forced civility, “Brittany, you can’t trust him. He’s always causing trouble and I-“ A rush of accusing, bitter words on the other end interrupted her excuses. The surgeon’s expression twisted and, before long, she was snapping, tersely, “Listen to me. I. Did not. Cheat. On you.”

The skip of her heart said otherwise. 

The surgeon’s hand reached out again, found and grabbed the door knob. She opened the door and said, smoothly, “Now, we can talk more about this when I get-“ 

Suddenly, the surgeon was jerked right off her feet and into the next room. The door slammed shut behind her. 

Scott raced over there instantly, Deaton on his heels. He started fighting with the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He banged on it, calling out to the surgeon. She didn’t respond—not to him, anyway.

A nurse ran up to him. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. The door’s stuck!” Scott told him, fighting with the handle. Just then, a confused and pained shriek came from the other side of the door, volume rising by the second. Patients peeked out of their rooms, faces worried and disturbed.

The nurse turned white. “I- I’ll call maintenance. Or the cops. Or-“ He ran over to the other side of the nurse’s station, fumbling with a phone. 

Scott threw his shoulder into the door once, twice, three times. When that got him nothing, he stared at his boss with wolf eyes, shocked that he was unable to do anything. He couldn’t break the frame of the door, nor knob, nor the door itself—all things he’d accidentally broken before with just a fraction of his strength. It was like everything had been temporarily reinforced with diamond.

And then, suddenly, the screaming cut out. The pressure eased away and Scott could turn the knob like nothing had happened.

Scott hastily pushed into the supply room, nearly stumbling through the doorway. The lights were flickering slightly above them and a tray was knocked over, scattering medical equipment all over the white floor.

And that god awful pressure from Patel’s room? It was there, lingering, making the hair on the back of Scott’s neck stand straight up.

The surgeon was on the floor too, flushed and covered with sweat. Her brown hair was plastered against her forehead and her blue eyes darted wildly around the room, seeking but sightless. She had her hands clapped over her thigh.

Deaton ducked down and moved the torn fabric to the side, exposing a huge purple bite mark. It was identical to Patel’s. Deaton looked up at Scott, eyes wide.

The surgeon kicked out slightly, trying to get her feet under her so she could stand. Her heart rate was slowing down, approaching normal, and she was started to smell a little less like prey.

Scott dropped to his knees in front of her, reaching out and giving her something to grab on to, to use as leverage. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders like large, blunt needles.

She was blinking rapidly and seemed deeply confused. “What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just-“ Her gaze was sharpening, focusing just behind Scott.

Deaton noticed it too. Sharply, he demanded, “What are you looking at? What do you see?”

The surgeon opened her mouth and let out a blood curdling scream.

-

Stiles stepped out of the shrink’s office, rattled and anxious from his session. Collins was relentless about the insomnia and nightmare situation. Both of those things were mostly history, thanks to both Derek and Finstock running the life out of him that one week. But Collins was like a dog with a bone, which made Stiles have a feeling he was going to spill about Gerard sooner or later. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

He started walking on the sidewalk, digging in his pants for his cell. Of course, just as he got it out of his pocket, he fumbled and dropped his phone into the street, just past the row of adjacently parked cars. Grumbling, Stiles stopped and crouched down next to the bumper of a dented truck and reached for his phone.

Sharp white teeth snapped in his face. 

Heart racing, Stiles jerked back in shock, slamming his elbow against the curb as the white eyed ghost dog snarled at him, vicious and aggressive and almost rabid, and then-

A car _zoomed_ past, clipping both vehicles parked on the side of the road. Car alarms went off in both cars as the impact sent them rocking back and forth. Shouts arose from pedestrians, both angered and fearful. The car made a loud, shrieking noise as it turned the corner and flew off to cause more chaos and potential harm in the downtown Beacon Hills area. 

Gasping for breath, Stiles crab-walked backwards onto the sidewalk, mind whirling and heart pounding. Past the shock and the fear, a single thought emerged.

If the dog hadn’t-

If the dog hadn’t gotten in his face and scared the life out of him… Stiles wouldn’t have had a life at all. 

That car would have _decapitated_ him.

Stunned, Stiles sat there for a long moment in a cold sweat. Meanwhile, the ghost dog stood there in front of him, in the street, attack stance gentling, the magnesium glow of its eyes dimming. And then, seeing Stiles there and intact, it barked, bouncing away with a friendly wag of its tail.

“Hey, kid. Are you alright?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're not going to back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: death of an OC, repercussions of a canon event, stalking behavior, blanket warning for alpha pack, tense parent/child relations, etc.

Lydia walked out of the hotel at a fast clip. She was wearing her favorite pair of Dior sunglasses, a wide brimmed hat, a white sundress, and flat, comfortable, and yet stylish shoes. This was generally what she preferred to wear at the airport because it said not only classy, but also _don’t talk to me_.

She should have been halfway home by now, but, instead, she’d spent much of the morning on her hands and knees, looking under her bed and the armoire, wanting to be absolutely sure she wasn’t going crazy. Again.

She was a little less put together than she had been three hours ago. She was all too aware she was sweaty and had obvious creases on her dress. An hour ago, her hair had crossed the razor thin line between artfully tousled and static-y mess. She was _not_ in a good mood.

Lips pursing, Lydia made a beeline for the café across the street. Her father was sitting just in front, enjoying a wide view through the window.

At her approach, Jeff shot her a look of fake surprise. “Oh look. You’re still here.” Lydia breathed heavily out of her nose, infuriated, but took a moment to shove all that under an insincere smile and a graceful descent to the free seat just across the table. 

Jeff’s smile widened a fraction. “What are your plans for today?” Eyes calculating, he lifted his mug to his mouth, sipping.

“I was _going to_ get a plane ticket back home.”

“Were you?”

“I was.” Lydia faked a look of consternation, crossing her legs. “Instead, it looks like I’ll have to enter a complaint with the local police about a theft.” Her eyes flicked up to him. “A series of thefts, in fact.”

Jeff’s expression didn’t betray him. His fingers, tightening ever so slightly, did. “Is that so?”

Lydia paused. She’d clearly hit a nerve, but he wasn’t budging. Sighing loudly, she snapped, “Cut the crap. I know it was you. What’s your game?”

Nostrils flaring, Jeff put down the mug with an audible thunk. “All I wanted out of this trip is for you to get to know Natalie,” he said in a bad temper. “Since you’ve _refused_ to play nice, I’ve had to make certain plans.”

Lydia tipped her chin up challengingly. “Certain plans. Plans that include theft? Telling the clerks to disconnect the phone line to my room?”

Jeff scowled at her. “You’re lucky you still have a room. Keep in mind that I’ve _allowed_ you to keep the precious privilege of your privacy.”

“Allowed me?” Lydia echoed, huffing out a sarcastic laugh. She looked over the interior of the café, jaw working with the effort not to scream. “You took away every tool I had to get away from you.” Her eyes cut to him. “This is basically the textbook definition of kidnapping.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, picking up his mug again. “You’re my child, I can’t kidnap you.”

“You’re not the one with custody over me, remember?” Lydia said cruelly. She cast her eyes up to the ceiling, pretending to think. “Legally speaking, I believe that makes you… what was the phrase? Oh, right. _Nothing to me._ ”

Jeff’s nostrils flared again and his mouth turned down. He couldn’t have liked that reminder. During the custody battle after the divorce, she’d given the judge a handwritten list of all the reasons why her mother was a superior guardian. She was all of seven at the time. 

Lydia didn’t use it often, as it was the lowest of blows. But she just felt so helpless and infuriated because of it. 

This vacation was supposed to be… fun. Relaxing. The bitterness of reality made her stomach turn.

Jeff set down his mug again, all without taking a sip. He was very slightly purple, but he seemed to be making an effort to ignore her last comment. “Since you won’t be an adult of your own volition, I am forcing you to be one,” he said with shaky calm. “I have your wallet, your driver’s license, your credit cards, your cell, and your passport. You obviously need these things to get home.” He stared her down with an ice cold expression. “For every successful outing you have with Natalie, I will give you one of your things back. And then you can go home.” When her eyebrows shot up, he shrugged. “I’m not trapping you here. _When_ you go home is entirely up to you.”

“Is that how you’re justifying kidnapping?”

Jeff ignored her. “If you act maturely, respectfully, and _kindly_ ”—Lydia rolled her eyes— “on top of genuinely getting to know your future stepmother, I can see you going home in a week. If you fight me, I’ll keep you for the rest of the month.”

He leaned back in his seat, as if this was a business transaction, and the deal was set and on the table. Neither option was good. Both involved a submission of a different kind, and Lydia was one hundred percent _done_ with being jerked around like this.

To her horror, she felt heat rising to her eyes. She tightened her jaw, glaring down at the table.

“Ball’s in your court, kid.”

Lydia let out a hollow laugh. “Why-” She looked up, eyes narrowing. “Why are you going to such lengths? You don’t really care if we get along or if her feelings get hurt. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“I care about plenty of people. Natalie, you, your mom-”

“Me? Yeah right. Give me one example.”

Jeff sat up, pulling out of his slouched stance. “I can give you _hundreds_ ,” he said fiercely. “What about when you were attacked by that mountain lion during prom? I came up as soon as I’d heard. I was there for you, I-“

“Bullshit,” she snapped back with venom. “You gave me a weekend, then you got bored and _left_.” She made a rough, violent gesture at him. “And then when I called you because I was sleep walking and _going out of my freaking mind_ , you told me to buck up and stop being such a girl.”

Jeff’s expression pulled slightly, something like guilt passing over his face. Then—because he was too much like her in the end—he covered it up with bluster and anger. “It was just a stupid animal, get over it. Besides, injuries heal, Lydia-”

“Have you gotten anything bigger than a papercut? No? Then _shut up_. I wasn’t just injured. I was attacked, assaulted. And it stayed with me.” More than he knew. “But because my problems didn’t jive with the narcissism of the Jefferson Martin Show, you couldn’t be half-assed to give me the _minute_ it would have taken for you to _lie_ to me and tell me everything would be okay.” Lydia was shaking and trembling and the heat was back in full force. 

Jeff’s expression gentled. He reached across the table, palm warming her forearm. “Lydia-“

Lydia shook his grip off and scooted back in her chair, retreating physically and emotionally. The look she leveled him with could have frozen lava. “I’ll play your stupid game, but don’t think this gives you any leverage over me.” She raised her eyebrows. “And when I win, as I _always_ do, that will be the last time you ever see me.”

There was a long pause. And then-

“Bad timing, huh.”

In unison, Jeff and Lydia looked up and away from each other. Once more, Natalie was hovering over their table. Instead of being embarrassed about her tardiness, she was instead gazing between them miserably, probably hating the intimate window she’d been given into the relationship between Lydia and her father.

Jeff cleared his throat. Lydia glanced at him, frowning at the sight of him rubbing his eyes with his thumb. “Anyway. Getting your stuff back,” he said hoarsely. “First event is with the three of us. Breakfast.” 

He wordlessly pushed out a chair for Natalie. Looking like she’d rather be anywhere else but there, Natalie cautiously lowered herself to the seat.

It was a stilted, unhappy meal. 

Lydia didn’t say a word to either of them until after Jeff, frowning unhappily, paid the bill. 

“Outing is over,” she said and opened up her hand. “Gimme.” 

He stared at her for a moment, eyebrows drawn in tight, likely wanting to press the ‘maturely, respectfully, kindly’ nonsense. But, in the end, he just sighed, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out her wallet and handed it over. 

Lydia tried very hard to keep a level expression. She knew her wallet inside and out, and knew she had her credit cards and her driver’s license in there. If she had those, maybe she could go to the U.S. Embassy and- _damn it._

It was empty. _Son of a bitch._

Jeff patted her shoulder as he walked past. “I have a feeling that this is going to be a long month for you, Lydia.”

Damn it to _hell_.

\- 

After the oodles and oodles of paranormal research he just did, Stiles figured that it was normal to feel hyperaware and paranoid that you weren’t alone. Thing is, though, Stiles didn’t feel any more on edge than usual—which was weird, right?

He guessed it was because he never _not_ had this sense that someone was watching. First, it was the ever watchful eyes of his dad and the whole sheriff department. Then it was that, plus Derek and Peter. Then that, plus hunters. Then that, plus a ghost dog, a pack of alphas, and god knew what else.

So, yeah. Stiles was pretty used to having eyes on him.

What he was _not_ used to, however, was eleven year old boys slamming full speed into the side of his parked car just as he was about to put his seatbelt on. There may have been screaming involved. Stiles may or may not have punched something. 

When Stiles finally got a hold of himself and fell out of his jeep, he found a strange sight—Jessie, looking three times his typical size. The kid was fully padded, completely so. Bubble wrap was even poking up and out of his collar. He was on his ass, rollerblade wheels spinning futilely to nowhere. 

Under a thick helmet, he glared up at Stiles, looking strangely determined despite what Stiles would have considered an epic failure.

Then Stiles got a closer look at him.

“Dude,” Stiles hissed. “Are you _fake_ crying? 

Jessie wailed loudly, beady blue eyes narrowed on him fiercely, not a tear in sight. People were starting to stare. Not knowing what to do, Stiles panicked and picked him up, taking him inside. He sat the kid down on the kitchen table before tearing up to his room to retrieve his first aid kit—because clearly something was wrong, right? 

When he got back downstairs, Jessie had hopped off the table and peeled off all of his extra layers. Not only had he been wearing two extra pairs of jeans under sweatpants, but he was also wearing a full set of leg pads, arm and elbow pads, two hoodies, and a legit set of shoulder pads from kiddie football. Also bubble wrap.

This was a planned accident, if there ever was one. He was going to be a great con artist one day.

Jessie, now free from his many protective layers, was contently investigating the interior of Stiles’ fridge. He was worse than his husky. 

Stiles nearly tripped over the kid’s helmet before he slammed the first aid kit on the table. “Brat, _explain yourself_.”

Jessie popped out of the fridge defensively, three string cheeses hanging out of his mouth. “I was gonna!”

Sighing, Stiles fell into the chair. “What the hell was that all about?” The question came out more tired than angry.

Jessie brightened and closed the fridge door behind him, climbing up on the free chair. “It was a ruse,” he said delightedly, biting one of his treats in half. He didn’t look damaged, at least.

“A ruse. Why?”

“Someone is sitting outside your house, dude,” Jessie said earnestly. And then, focusing on peeling his string cheese, he said, “And after your serial killer boyfriend got all uppity about the mailman-“

“-not my boyfriend. Also _not_ a serial killer, believe it or not. Where do you-“

“-I thought I’d keep an eye on things. For him.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him, annoyed. “You haven’t even gone through puberty yet. What the hell can you do?”

Jessie scowled at him, throwing a wrapper at his face. “Apparently more than you, Captain… Oblivious!”

“Wow, reached for that one, didn’t you.”

“Shut up.” Jessie leaned back, digging in his pockets. He pulled out several thick folded papers, wrinkled and worn thin in places from their tiny prison. He pushed it at Stiles and watched avidly as Stiles unfolded them, revealing notes messily scribbled in ink and fifth grader penmanship.

Stiles read it over, eyebrow rising. “Physical description, make and model of the car, stalk… hours, for lack of a better phrase. And a license plate,” he said to himself. 

“You’re welcome, dick.” Despite the negativity, Jessie looked super pleased with himself.

“This is impressive. And creepy.” The physical description was very vague, and even the specific details barely narrowed things down. Apparently, Stiles’ secret admirer was a dude his age with brown hair and brown eyes. If Stiles had a nickel for every guy who fit that description… 

The description of the vehicle, however, was much more telling—a blue mom car with a dented bumper and a happy face sticker in the back window. Stiles _knew_ that car. Hell, he’d made fun of that car. Recently too.

Stiles sighed, exhausted with this already. He idly rubbed the paper between his hands, and then paused, realizing there was more than the first page. “I think I know who this is,” he said distractedly. “He goes to my school.”

“What, did you not invite him to prom?”

Stiles shot him a look. “Hey, I took the smartest and most beautiful girl at my school to prom. So there.”

“Yeah right,” Jessie said dismissively, turning in his seat to jump off.

Stiles peeled the first paper off the second. “Who are you to even question my game, you little-“

Jessie’s eyes widened in alarm. He threw himself over the table, hands fanning out to cover the second page. “No, it’s not done yet!”

It, in question, was a pencil drawing of an older teenage male behind the wheel of the car. And, judging by the distressed look on Jessie’s face, Stiles had a feeling he knew who drew this.

Blushing, Jessie snatched at it. Stiles lifted it just out of his reach, staring at it. “No, this is…” Stiles looked beyond the paper at Jessie, genuinely surprised. “This is really good. You should be proud.” Jessie, surprised by that, subsided slightly, a shy smile curling his lips.

And Stiles wasn’t even lying. The perspective was a little off, sure, but this kid was a natural. Some more practice and-

Stiles frowned at the picture, spirits lagging a little. He flipped around the paper, showing Jessie his drawing. “I _definitely_ know who this is.”

Stiles got Jessie to stay in the house, and then went out the back door. His whole neighborhood was connected to the preserve, like most neighborhoods were in this town. Not only did this give them awesome tree cover during the summer, but it also gave them about fifty billion different shortcuts to get around town. Historically speaking, all trails but the game trails came from decades and decades of people too lazy to take the paved roads. 

Stiles took one of these trails at a jog, cutting across the preserve before bursting out of a bush, panting and slightly scratched onto one of the main roads. He made a loop and jogged back to his street from the other side. It didn’t take long for a familiar blue mom car to fall within his sights.

His temper flared because, you know, he was just almost killed, right? Some shitty driver with no common sense almost took his head off. Then there was Gerard and the kanima and Peter and Derek too, and it was just- he- 

He just had no goddamn patience for human bullshit right now.

His target’s focus was so fixed on Stiles’ house that he didn’t even notice Stiles come on the driver side of his car until it was too late.

His heart racing, Stiles reached in the open window, pulled the keys out, and tossed them into the back. A fist swung out at him blindly, but Stiles leaned out of the way, grabbed the wrist, and pulled it out, pinning the guy’s hand against the back side window. His right handed assailant flopped ineffectively, trapped by an attack of his own making. His left arm was trapped up against the door.

“I don’t know why you’re sitting outside my house, but you’re seriously getting on my nerves.”

Cody Masters looked mad enough to spit fire. “You-“

Stiles stuck a finger in his face. “ _No._ You are small fry, get it? You’re not worth my _time_. I don’t know how sad or lonely of a life you must have to sit outside my house like this, but I don’t care. _Find a better hobby_.” 

Cody struggled a little bit before subsiding, face flushed with rage. “You son of a bitch.”

Stiles pretended like his heart was all aflutter. “Pet names, already? I love you too, boo bear.” Stiles squinted down at him, head cocked to the side. “Since we’re stalking buddies and all, here’s a pro tip—California has some of the best anti-stalking laws in the nation.” Stiles tapped him once, hard, in the middle of the forehead. “If I catch you or your shitty ass car outside my house again, I’m calling the cops and you can see just how good those laws are. Understood? Great.”

Stiles backed up, letting go of Cody’s arm. Cody pulled it back in, wincing and rubbing at his shoulder. Stiles walked across the street and back up to his house, glancing over his shoulder as Cody’s engine roared. He watched the guy burn rubber and race out of there, ignoring stop and yield signs.

“Wow,” Jessie commented. He was sitting outside of the front door, idly chewing on a popsicle. “Pent up rage, much?”

Stiles rolled his eyes at him. “Go home.”

Jessie bounced to his feet. “I’m going to tell my mom you hit me with your car.”

“You do that.”

Stiles turned away from him, looking back at the street. He was panting and his heart racing. But he felt good. He felt _charged_. He couldn’t do much against a pack of alphas, but he sure as hell could put the fear of jail in some teenager stalking loser.

Hopefully, the next confrontation would go at least half as well.

-

Melissa had fielded some crazy days at work, but this one was just weird. She had barely walked in through the door when one of the guys in today’s section flat lined and a Code Blue was called. 

It didn’t make sense. They hadn’t even flagged him for complications. He didn’t have surgery, didn’t go under anesthetics, and, aside from the reason he came in, didn’t have any major health issues. He was practically outpatient. 

All he was diagnosed with was dehydration, and they were dealing with that. It made absolutely no sense.

But when she saw her son in the hallway, head in his hands, she thought that maybe she was looking through the wrong frame of reference.

The team left the room, unable to revive the patient. Melissa entered the room just as the attending physician noted the time of death.

“You alright there, Rene?”

The doctor looked up, clearly spooked. “I don’t know what happened, his heart just stopped.”

Frowning, Melissa looked at the patient. The man, Mr. Samuel Patel, looked drained and withered. He had a gigantic purple bruise on his neck, on the inside of his arm, and on his calf where it was exposed. It was large enough and long enough to be a dog bite, but Melissa had seen dog bites before. This bruise didn’t even remotely resemble one—there were no teeth marks, for one.

Mr. Patel had a twisted, wide eyed look of fear on his face. Melissa had to look away.

She looked back at Rene. “What about that mark. You think it’s a symptom of something?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Like a disease?” He gestured at the one on the calf. “It’s a contusion, not some kind of infection reaction.” He shook his head. “This is weird, but it’s not CDC weird.”

“And I suppose it’s not contagious?”

“Absolutely not.”

Melissa crossed his arms over her chest. “Then how do you explain Dr. Winfield?” The gossip network in a hospital rivaled even that of high school. Everyone knew everything minutes after it happened, even with the limitation of HIPAA laws. 

“I… can’t.”

Melissa nodded once, stepping out of the room. “That’s what I thought.” 

As surprising as Mr. Patel’s death was, there was still a definite procedure to follow. They had to hunt down Mr. Patel’s next of kin. The doctor needed to do paperwork. The head nurse needed to do paperwork. A funeral home needed to be called. 

So she helped with all these things, one by one. She took phone calls and found paperwork and got signatures and made copies. She even did a round around the floor, fielding questions and concerns from other patients and their families. 

The next of kin was found. Arrangements were made. An hour passed in a blink of an eye.

Then, and only then, did she confront her son.

“Everything’s fine, huh?” Melissa said brusquely, arms crossed over her chest.

Scott looked up from where he’d had his head in his hands. His eyes were blood shot and red rimmed. He looked exhausted and sorrowful and deeply, deeply guilty.

Melissa wanted to be mad at him, but she couldn’t help the way her heart twisted, hurting for his hurt. So she sat down on the chair next to him, patting his knee. “You gonna explain what the hell that was?” she asked gently. After a beat, she looked over at him, frowning.

Scott sighed and leaned back in his chair. “As best as I can understand… invisible monsters?”

Melissa pulled back, blinking rapidly. “I- what?”

He shook his head. “We don’t even know what it is yet. But Deaton says they’re bad and they’re scary and you need to stay the heck away from them.” Scott rubbed at his eyes and said, very softly, “Absolutely do not engage.”

Melissa winced and rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for him, having to listen to a man die, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

“Okay. So things are not safe then, basically.” Melissa pinched her nose, feeling a headache coming on. Invisible monsters, god. A thought occurred. “What about the alpha pack?”

Scott’s head shot up and he stared at her with wide eyes. “Uh…”

Melissa narrowed her eyes at him. She knew Scott very, very well. She knew what surprise looked like on him, and, while this was certainly shock, this was not the kind of surprise that came from the knowledge that she knew about the threat. This surprise was more guilty and forgetful—like when he forgot to pick her up from work. Or when he forgot to pick up milk from the store. 

“Are you- are you kidding me right now?” Melissa turned to face him fully. “You’ve been so wrapped up in following the intangible monster that’s not even interested in attacking you, specifically, and you just _forgot_ to keep a tab on the pack of alpha werewolves?” She couldn’t believe him. “Weren’t you the one who said we don’t have a good track record with alphas?”

“I, uh…” Scott frowned, clearly trying to think of something to defend himself with. “Derek,” he said suddenly, with all the desperation of a drowning man flailing for a buoy.

Melissa lifted an eyebrow. “Derek.”

“Derek’s the one… who’s handling that?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“A… statement?”

Melissa groaned and, hello, migraine. “You better hope he’s handling that. I’m so not ready to fight two different types of monsters at once. I’m still new at this!” 

To think, she’d felt so scared—yet competent—after receiving her new ammunition.

What the hell killed invisible monsters anyway? Did mountain ash block off invisible monsters too? She would ask Stiles, but she had a feeling he knew less about this new situation than she did.

“ _Mom_ ,” Scott said sharply. She looked over at him. He looked equal parts alarmed and demanding. “You’re not fighting any of them. _At all_!” 

Scott was kind of a control freak about this supernatural stuff. She understood where he was coming from, but…

“Bullshit. If you’re there, I’m there. No ifs, ands, or buts.” When his expression fell, she just ran a hand over the top of his head reassuringly. “Honey, if I knew who bit you and turned you in the first place, I would put a wolfsbane round in their head. That’s how much I love you.”

Scott let her pet him, mumbling, “You don’t _have_ wolfsbane rounds.”

“Do now,” Melissa sang softly, standing. She looked around, slightly more paranoid now that she knew there were invisible monsters skulking about. 

“Wait, Mom, what does that mean?”

Distracted, she looked back at him. She thought about telling Scott about Stiles—about how he’d rushed into her house, ashen faced and talking a mile minute about how she needed to protect herself. 

She decided against it. “Your boss said don’t engage, right? So go. Go check on Derek. I have a feeling he’s going to need a hand.”

-

Derek very slowly pressed his head against his steering wheel. His hands clenched and unclenched around it, squeezing it to the point of breaking before letting it go, then doing it all over again.

The alpha pack was in his apartment. 

Derek let out a low, shaky breath. He’d forced this. He’d made them notice him. But now, at the cusp of ending this anxiety provoking stalemate, Derek wished very much that he hadn’t gotten their attention at all.

Derek was afraid.

And Derek had to get out of his car. He had to walk up to his apartment and talk to these people. He had to.

They knew where everyone lived. If he didn’t make himself available, they’d just go to the next one in line. Scott. Isaac. Jackson. Lydia. Stiles. Even Deaton and the sheriff wouldn’t be safe.

Derek was trapped.

He clenched his eyes shut, willing it all to go away. When the universe didn’t magically rearrange itself, he steeled his spine and lifted his head. He got out of his car, locking it and walking the rest of way to his front door in silence. 

The door was unlocked. He pushed his way through, nose wrinkling under the combined scents of old blood, youth, soap, aftershave, and shampoo. And, strangely, Derek’s tea.

His place had never been so crowded before. All but two of the five were familiar to him. Kali had her feet up on his kitchen table and was texting disinterestedly. Ennis was seated on the other side, flicking under his claws with a pocket knife. The two strangers, twins, were leaning against the wall. They straightened up slightly at his entrance, but barely glanced in his direction.

“Boo,” the taller twin said. “I had money on you never coming out of your car. Way to lose me money, big guy.”

“Shut up, Aiden,” Kali said. The boy made a face, but settled down.

Derek didn’t say a word. He only had eyes for the leader, the one werewolf with his back to the rest of the room, and, oddly, the one making tea.

Deucalion—alpha of alphas, kin killer, and, once upon a time, his mom’s best friend.

There was a moment where no one said anything at all. Then Deucalion spoke, his voice as rich and deep as Derek remembered. “I suppose I needn’t have to ask who sicced the Beacon County Sheriff Department on us.”

Derek’s hackles were up, but he forced a shrug. “They had your file.” He looked at Ennis. “What law did you break, by the way?”

Ennis’ jaw tensed. “Traffic violations,” he bit out. Derek’s eyebrow rose. Kali smirked over the table at him.

Deucalion clucked his tongue, turning around. “Yes. Quite embarrassing to see those hadn’t been addressed. I’ll have to fire our lawyer.” Derek wonder if that was going to be through the phone or by his teeth, but decided he didn’t want to know. “Fortunately, all of those have been cleared up by now.” Deucalion looked up, eyes blank and bloody red. “Just in case a concerned citizen wanted to know.”

Derek swallowed. It was true, then. Talia had locked down her pack tight when Deucalion turned on his own. Laura always said that that Deucalion had been blinded first, and by a hunter no less, but Derek had never believed her. It seemed impossible that, one, a hunter had gotten the jump on an alpha like Deucalion and, two, that a blind alpha could wipe out an entire pack of very capable betas.

This whole situation was so surreal. Deucalion had become a boogeyman to the younger members of their pack in their heyday, and here he was, stirring sugar into tea in Derek’s kitchen.

It was just then that Derek noticed, with a faint chill, that all the research he’d had spread out over the table was gone, folded up and tucked away on the counter, almost as if it had been carefully looked through, sorted, and set aside. Scratched that, it had _definitely_ been looked through.

Derek tipped his chin up slightly. Since he had been researching in entirely the wrong direction, he hoped the alphas hadn’t made the connection between the Warning of the Thirteen and the idiotic search he made of someone with the initials of I. Y. But that was all that was—hope.

Deucalion’s cup gently clicked on the table, empty. And suddenly, the full force of the alpha’s attention was solely and completely on Derek. 

The room was so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

“You trespassed on my den,” Deucalion said softly.

“It was hardly a den.”

Deucalion shrugged with a false affability. “Perhaps, but I’ve grown fond of it.” He smiled very faintly, his canines flashing. “And you know how our kind feels about territory.”

Derek abruptly had the sense he was on familiar grounds, because… as terrifying as this all was? It wasn’t new. He’d been born and bred into this.

This was how werewolves did business.

So he shifted his weight slightly and said, “Really? Are you sure it’s yours?” With an exaggerated expression of confusion, he shook his head. “Because I don’t see your name on the deed.”

“A name on a piece of paper doesn’t matter,” Kali snapped.

“It does when that name belongs to a werewolf.” Derek looked back at Deucalion and ducked his head slightly, widening his eyes. “And you know how our kind feels about territory.”

Deucalion blinked. It was the first time Derek surprised him. “It’s yours.” 

Of all the reasons Derek expected behind Deucalion’s choice of hideouts, he hadn’t anticipated the most simplest of them all—the man didn’t know the warehouse belonged to Derek at all. 

“Do you want to see the paperwork?”

“No. I believe you.” After a beat, Deucalion gave Derek a brief smile that twisted his face up all the right ways. It didn’t reach his eyes. “That is… unfortunate.” He glanced at the twins. The pair looked away with slightly ill expressions on their faces. Derek had a feeling he knew who was in charge of researching the warehouse. “It appears we have trespassed first.”

Derek made a show of looking around. “It seems to be a habit of yours.”

Deucalion bobbed his head once. “The first trespass was necessary to let you know we were here. The second two were not.” Derek didn’t see what gesture he made at Kali and Ennis, but, in unison, they stood. “We have overstayed our welcome in your home. That goes for the warehouse as well. We will leave and find a new area that does not have your name on it. You have my word.”

Ennis and Kali looked bored, like they had been promised front row seats to a slaughter, only to be informed at last minute that it was canceled. They walked past Derek to the front door, not sparing him a single glance. The twins then ducked around him too, heart rates slightly elevated.

Derek just stood there, stunned. With the Warning of the Thirteen hanging over his head, he hadn’t expected them to come just because of a territory dispute. Even stranger, he hadn’t expected them to concede to _him_ when it was revealed that they were in the wrong. In the wrong or right, Derek expected it to end bloody for him. He expected them to end the dispute by ending _him_ , not by peacefully removing themselves.

Derek watched the four alphas leave out the front door, frowning behind them. Fighting and maintaining territory was one of the most basic instincts a werewolf—and especially an alpha—had. If they weren’t interested in fighting for territory, then what were they interested in?

Derek nearly flinched right out of his skin when Deucalion’s hand fell on his shoulder.

The man was smiling, eyes hidden by sunglasses and free hand occupied by his cane. “You have an… interesting pack, Derek,” he said. He frowned. “I’m not sure what your mother would think, but it is clear to me that you were dealt a bad hand. Nevertheless, you made do and that, in itself, is praiseworthy.”

Derek’s skin was crawling. He’d rather be drowning in the middle of the ocean with sharks nipping at his knees than standing here with this man so close to him, breathing his air and smiling like there was a vital game being played here, and Derek had lost already.

“Anyway. Farewell.”

Miraculously, Deucalion let go of him and walked to the front door. It was open and Kali waited there, expression pinched even as she lifted an arm, ready to extend the façade of a vulnerable blind human and his caring friends. Derek watched him go, heart in his throat.

Then it hit him.

“Wait,” Derek said hoarsely. Deucalion paused and half-turned in the doorway, fingers still lingering on Kali’s arm. “What do you want with us? Why are you here?”

“Why do you care?” Kali asked challengingly.

Derek thought about the warning in alpha’s blood and forced a shrug. “Because you’re five alphas in a town that historically only has one. It brings up a few questions here and there.”

Deucalion and Kali looked at each other. “Ah. Yes, I suppose we didn’t explain that,” Deucalion said. 

-

Stiles drove out to one of the lesser used roads before parking and getting out. There were all sorts of fun clearings and hidey holes in the preserve, but it didn’t actually matter where Stiles went. He just wanted open spaces and privacy, and those were pretty easy to find.

Stiles also didn’t have to hunt anything down, considering the target of his next inquiry was, as per Deaton’s explanation, mystically and accidentally tethered to Stiles’ being. So. There was that.

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away from his car and into the woods, searching for a suitable clearing. He knew he would be followed.

You see, the thing about black ghost dogs? They’re sort of ubiquitous across the supernatural landscape. They had a ton of different names in the stories, such as Hellhounds, Barghests, abd Bearers of Death.

There was also Cù-Sìth, Black Shucks, Mauthe Doog, Cŵn Annwn, Beast of Bungay, Hounds of Hecate—Stiles could go all day. It was nauseating.

Sometimes, they were reapers, stealing souls or stealing children or stealing lost drunk people, stumbling along their way. Sometimes they ate people. Sometimes they stalked people. Sometimes they protected people.

The whole black dog physical description was pretty vague and unspecific in the lore. But, see, the important thing wasn’t what it was, but rather what it _did_. And what Stiles’ black dog did? That was pretty freaking significant.

If that dog hadn’t barked when it did, Stiles would be dead. 

And when that guy died in the car crash? When Stiles trapped the thing inside his… mystical webbing or whatever? The dog was barking. And when Jackson had attacked him… well, let’s face it—Stiles could have easily died that day too. If Jackson had used too much force, or if Stiles’ head had hit a protruding piece of metal… or even if some weaker part of his skull was impacted… yeah. Stiles could have died. 

And the dog had grabbed his sleeve in the parking lot that day.

Other than those warnings, the dog was pretty innocuous. It just hung around, watching Stiles curiously. Deaton had talked about the consequences of a vengeful captured spirit, but this dog wasn’t even mad—if it was, hell, it would have let that car take off Stiles’ head. And, if it did, the mystical net of whatever would have disappeared, right? Boom, problem solved.

But, instead of being pissed about its situation, it seemed to delight in the newness of being noticed. Stiles still wasn’t quite sure what that meant in the long run anyway.

Well, this clearing seemed good enough. 

Stiles cleared his throat, casting his gaze through the surrounding woods before promptly sitting on the ground. The dew on the grass seeped through his jeans within minutes, but he stayed there, looking around for the dog. Stiles tapped out a rhythm on his knees, sighing loudly. He had all day to do this. _All day long_.

Eventually, it came out from behind the trees, slow and hesitant. It hovered in his line of sight, dark furry body still and in no way camouflaged. When Stiles just watched it, neither ignoring it nor shooing it away, it came a little closer, letting out little huffs of half-barks barely given voice.

Finally, it stood in front of him, barely ten feet away. 

Stiles swallowed heavily. This was it. The moment of no return.

“I know what you are,” he said softly. “You’re a death omen.”

It stilled completely and stared down at him unblinkingly. Stiles didn’t know how much the death omen had copied the mannerisms of real dogs until just then. Now that Stiles was confronting it, the omen was acting more like a statue than a living thing. 

Stiles shifted forward slightly and it _flinched_ , hopping back three steps. Startled, Stiles reached out, wanting to reassure it but not knowing what to say. After a moment, his hand fell and he shifted back to his original position.

For a long moment, a teenager and a death omen stared each other down.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles said quietly. “You saved my life.” And then, when the omen just cocked its massive head, he said, “ _Thank you_.”

The omen seemed to unfreeze, concrete disappearing from its joints. It pawed at the ground a little, gazing at Stiles shyly. Letting out a low bark, it stepped closer to him with a dipped head. And closer. And closer. 

It didn’t stop until it was crawling in his lap. “I- okay.” Stiles winced. “You’re- you’re _so_ not a lapdog, FYI.” 

With a sigh, it abruptly sat on Stiles, flattening Stiles to the floor. “ _Oof_.” Stiles ran his bare hands over the omen’s coat, his palms tingling with something like a cross between static electricity and bugs crawling over his skin. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it was just odd, and, the longer Stiles pet it, the faster the feeling went away.

They sat like that for a while. And then, nearly breathless, Stiles tried to push the omen off or at least to the side so he could sit up, but that was a no go. The death omen was almost two hundred pounds of happily panting ghost dog. What he wouldn’t give for the thing to turn intangible now.

The death omen shifted its weight, taking most of it off Stiles’ poor abused chest. It delicately laid its massive head on Stiles’ knee and Stiles’ heart just… melted.

He’d always wanted a dog.

He scratched at the omen’s thick fur. “Creepy ghost dog wants to play fetch?” Stiles asked tentatively, voice slightly higher than usual.

A furry ear perked up in interest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask the question if you don't want to hear the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: communication issues, brief discussion about monster attacks, author does not know how therapy works, cliff hanger? A fairly mild chapter, all in all.
> 
> Many thanks to des_pudels_kern, who poked at Lydia’s plot line with a mighty sword of logic and made me fully articulate my half-formed thoughts about why Lydia doesn’t just get her dad in trouble the easy way. Basically, she wants to teach him a lesson, not throw him in jail. Thank you so very much, my dear! 
> 
> Also, to anyone who takes the time to write me a comment--thank you!! Even though it can take me two weeks to respond to you, I read them the moment they come in and they make me very happy. :)

Today’s outing had gone very bad very quickly. Lydia and Natalie were supposed to take a tour around the city while her father fielded some calls from work, so they met up in the lobby of Lydia’s hotel after breakfast. 

Lydia had forgotten how little patience Natalie had with social warfare. But even when she was reminded, Lydia couldn’t help but continue to pick. Natalie’s very existence was an irritant to her, a walking, talking reminder of the awful plot twist her vacation had taken. 

She was supposed to be bonding with her father, not bickering in the middle of a public square in a foreign country with her father’s mistress. She was supposed to be weighing whether or not she should move in with him, not idly fantasying how quickly his self-assured smile would fall if the hotel was stormed with a pack of werewolves. Or a kanima. Or, hell, even a guy with a butter knife and a dream.

She absolutely hated that smug look on his face— _hated_ it.

And, at the moment, it seemed like everything bad in the world was completely and entirely Natalie’s fault.

The tour guide was awkwardly edging away from them. He knew about three words of English, but was an expert enough on body language to know that he didn’t want to get in between Natalie and Lydia.

“You had to know they were on the edge,” Natalie said quickly, expression darkening. “You had to know they were going to tip over, you had to-”

“You didn’t need to shove them off the cliff!” Lydia shouted, vibrating in place.

Natalie’s jaw tightened. Then, abruptly, she turned to the tour guide, speaking to him in sharp Italian. No, we don’t need the tour anymore. Sorry for wasting your time. Here’s a tip. He fled with a wad of cash, leaving Lydia and Natalie behind. 

Natalie was as stiff as a statue. In contrast, Lydia found herself panting, visibly and obviously riled up. Her heart was racing, her face was flushed. She was just so _angry_ , and she didn’t know where to direct it.

Natalie glanced at her briefly before staring at the wall over Lydia’s shoulder. “Well, today was a disaster,” Natalie said bitterly. She started digging into her purse. A moment later, she was shoving a folded rectangle Lydia’s way. “Here.”

Lydia took it, unraveling it in her hands. Natalie had given her money to get back to the hotel and, strangely enough, her pilfered California state driver’s license.

Lydia’s rage didn’t leave her in a rush, but rather in a jerking, confused series of hitches.

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking up. “I didn’t stay from beginning to end.”

“And you sure as hell weren’t respectful.” Natalie was clinging onto her purse strap like it was a lifeline. Her face and body were all tensed up, like she expected Lydia to attack. When Lydia just stared at her, she blurted out, “I’m not comfortable with this, Lydia. Your father, he… he means well, but this was too heavy handed. I’m sorry.”

After a beat, Natalie nodded once, sharply, and turned and started walking away. She had the look of someone who was stoically accepting defeat, but in a way that suggested that the surface veneer was a lie to cover the turmoil roiling underneath.

No, Lydia wasn’t sentimental enough to see herself in Natalie. Instead, she saw _Allison_ , and that was enough to unglue her from the floor.

“Wait!” Lydia jogged after her, catching up quickly. Natalie paused, looking guarded. Lydia paused, lips pressed together, and then, quickly, she said, “I don’t hate you. I used to… I used to like you a lot.”

After a beat, Natalie nodded. “I know. That’s why this sucks.” She gazed back at Lydia unhappily, a frown denting the skin between her eyebrows.

When Lydia was a child, Natalie was Jeff’s only enduring assistant. In some ways, Natalie had shaped who Lydia had become. She’d been Lydia’s role model, the person she looked up to. She was always around. She always seemed to know everything, no matter what Lydia asked her.

One Christmas, Natalie had given Lydia a science set. Lydia was five. Her parents hadn’t understood what she did about Lydia. They just nodded patronizingly, quietly brainstorming which of their distant cousins would tolerate it when Lydia cast it aside. Her parents were blown away when it was the only thing she’d play with for the next eleven months.

But even a child genius can’t wrap their head around why their best friend was stealing their dad away from them. Hell, Lydia was sixteen, and she still didn’t get it.

Natalie’s grip on her purse was loosening. She looked less and less like she was going to bolt. “Do you… do you want to sit and talk?”

After a beat, Lydia nodded wordlessly, overwhelmed.

They went to the closest coffee shop. Natalie ordered them both something to drink and then they both sat in the back corner of the shop. The table was a tiny circle, so small that their knees bumped up and brushed against each other.

Natalie took a fortifying swig of her coffee, then put it down, giving Lydia her full attention. “Lay it on me. Tell me where your head’s at, kiddo.”

Lydia hesitated. There was a large part of her that wanted to keep everything to herself, wanted to pretend that everything was a-okay. But an even larger part was sick and tired of playing everything close to chest.

Lydia ended up telling Natalie everything. She told her about her new best friend and her boyfriend. She told her about the murders and the unsolved arson case that took out most of a family. She told her about being attacked at prom. She told her about waking up out of a coma and living in a forest for a few days in a haze and how her reputation at school had tanked in response. She told her about how Jackson had ditched her and called her dead weight and how everyone in her life seemed to be lying to her.

“Wow.” Natalie’s eyes were wide and her eyebrows nearly merged with her hairline. “You have had the _worst_ year.”

Lydia preened slightly at that validation. “I know, right? Anyway, that’s not even all of it…”

She told Natalie about how the attack never really left her, never really got better. She talked about what happened to Allison and Allison’s mom, and how Allison needed to get away, and how alone that made Lydia feel. She talked about getting back together with Jackson and how everything was better in that front—but also worse because her eyes had been opened too wide and she didn’t know how to process everything.

“Process what?”

Lydia froze. Then she smiled thinly. “Just my new perspective on the world!” 

She did not mention werewolves. She knew better than that. 

If there was anything worse than feeling crazy, it was having other people look at you like that was true.

-

Scott hesitated outside apartment 133 A, his fist lifted to knock. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Please don’t be bad news,” he muttered, then dropped his hand, grabbing the door knob. 

In the text, Derek had said to let himself in. Even so, his hackles rose at the easy way the knob turned under his hand.

The apartment wasn’t empty. Scott had known that much from the parking lot. Now that he was inside, he could see that Jackson had made himself comfortable in Derek’s kitchen. His feet were up on the table and he was idly picking at his sleeve. At Scott’s entrance, he tensed ever so slightly before tipping his head up at Scott challengingly.

Scott let the door slam behind him. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Isaac looked up from where he was doing his homework, textbook inches from Jackson’s heels. His distracted expression cleared. “Oh! Hi.” Isaac’s gaze flicked from Scott to Jackson and back to Scott again. “I have no idea. I thought he would be in jail right now.”

In retaliation, Jackson kicked Isaac’s textbook off the table.

Scott caught it before it hit the ground and slowly straightened, glaring down at Jackson. There was a deep, rattling noise in the kitchen. It took Scott a moment to realize that it wasn’t coming out of nowhere, it was coming out of _him_. It was rumbling in his chest and scraping up his throat, tickling his gums and making them burn. And, faintly, the corners of Scott’s vision were starting to darken with red, like a sea shore slowly disappearing under the inevitable rush of a red tide, and-

“ _Enough_.”

Scott straightened up slightly, blinking the haze away. He turned slightly, frowning as he watched Derek step out of the shadows of his room. Despite the momentary flash of alpha red in his eyes, Derek seemed more frustrated than angry.

“I get it,” Derek said brusquely, pushing past Scott into the kitchen. “There are unresolved issues here. Friends were attacked. Egos were hurt.” At that pointed bit, Derek slapped Jackson’s feet off the table. Jackson moodily allowed it, straightening in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Derek turned, glaring down Scott. “Get over it.” 

In his peripheral vision, Scott saw Isaac duck his head slightly. Strangely enough, behind Derek, Jackson was mimicking the same body language.

Behind Derek, Scott realized with sudden clarity. _Behind._ Because Derek had put himself between Scott and his beta. Why would he even-

Swallowing slightly, Scott looked down at Isaac’s textbook. His claws were obvious against the green cover. 

There was a long pause.

Smiling without humor, Scott pushed down the shift and took a step to the right. He gently put the textbook back in front of Isaac. Then he looked back at Derek. “As shitty as it is to know that Jackson has gotten off scot-free _yet again_ , I’m actually not interested in ripping his face off.”

“News to me,” Jackson muttered.

Scott ignored him, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s this about the alpha pack?”

Derek didn’t answer right away, but clearly not out of obstinacy. He had a complicated expression on his face—part confusion, part disbelief, part consternation. He looked like he didn’t know where to start, even though he was the one who texted Scott to get over here.

“They came,” Isaac said quickly, shifting in his seat. He swallowed. “Here. They came here.”

“What?” Jackson said, clearly just as out of the loop as Scott. He leaned across the table, demanding, “When?”

“Last night,” Isaac said, eyes on Derek’s back.

Scott looked at him too. “Derek?” He couldn’t help the thread of concern in his voice. Derek looked exhausted, like he’d aged ten years.

After a beat, Derek nodded. “They came to talk to me. There was a… territory dispute. I handled it.”

“So they’re leaving,” Scott said leadingly, eyes narrowing.

“Not… quite,” Derek hedged.

There was a pause. 

Then, impatiently, Jackson demanded, “What the hell does that mean?”

Derek shifted slightly, looking back at him. “It means that they’re not interested in Beacon Hills.” His gaze moved from Jackson to Isaac. “It means that they’re _going_ to leave, they just… haven’t yet.”

“So why were they here in the first place?” Scott asked.

With a slight wince, Derek turned back to him. “The kanima situation, actually.” Behind him, Jackson stared blindly at his hands. “When they saw that it was no longer a concern, they stopped being interested in us.”

“Really,” Scott said flatly.

“Yes, _really_.”

Isaac ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the front curls. “That doesn’t make sense. The kanima thing was over with well before they marked up your house. Why would they-“

“I don’t know, Isaac,” Derek snapped. “That’s just what he said!”

No one said anything for a moment. Isaac propped his chin up on his hand and stared at the wall with a frown. Jackson sat, shoulders hunched inwards, like a rigid doll surrounded in a thick coating of metal. Derek stood between Scott and the two of them, heart tapping away rapidly in his chest and scent spiraling into strain and stress. 

Under all that was the lingering odor of five hostile alpha werewolves.

Scott sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t buy it,” he said, breaking the silence. Isaac’s head whipped around and he gave Scott a look like _you too?_ Derek’s jaw tightened. 

“I’m not lying.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Scott said quietly, calmly.

It didn’t help. “He wasn’t either!”

Scott let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Seriously, Derek? You don’t think a werewolf could figure out how to lie to another werewolf?”

“I would know if he was-”

Jackson’s chair screeched against the floor as he jumped up. “So we’re good, basically.” Before anyone could say anything, he pushed past them to the front door. “Thanks for the update, Derek. It’s been swell.” 

Scott flinched at the sound of Jackson slamming the door shut behind him. 

After a moment, Isaac scrambled, picking up his school stuff. “I’m- I’m gonna bounce too. I need to finish this study guide for the next test if I’m going to do well.” He paused, juggling the mess in his hands. “Sorry, I’d stay but-” He shot them a thin smile. “I hate it when Mom and Dad fight.”

His weak joke fell flat. Isaac hesitated, looking between the two of them, then he cautiously headed towards his room. Soon, his door was closing shut too.

Scott shifted where he stood, feeling awkward. Then- “Just so you know, I’m Mom, you’re Dad.”

“Shut up,” Derek told him without heat, taking Jackson’s chair. He rested his head on his hand, staring at nothing.

Scott hesitated, watching him. Scott’s feelings about Derek were always erratic, swinging wildly from frustrated hate to reluctant trust. Even so, he couldn’t just walk out of the room like the other two, not when Derek looked like that—tired, defeated, _alone_.

Scott slowly slid into Isaac’s chair. He smiled weakly at Derek when the guy’s gaze fell on him.

“Look, I’m not- I don’t _trust_ Deucalion,” Derek said quietly, shaking his head. “There’s something else going on with them that they’re not talking about. But if there’s a way I can make it so you and all the others can finish high school in peace…” Derek paused, then shook his head. “I’d do anything, Scott.”

“I believe you, Derek,” Scott replied. “I just think that it’s not that easy.”

After a moment, Derek nodded in agreement, then rubbed his hands over his face.

When Derek didn’t say anything else, Scott stood. “I’ve gotta head out. But do you-” Feeling self-conscious, Scott shrugged. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah.” Derek’s hands came down from around his face. “Update Stiles.”

“S-Stiles?” Scott was so surprised, he nearly choked on the name. Of all the things Scott expected to be asked of him, that one wasn’t even on his Top 100 list. 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, _Stiles_. You know, your best friend?”

“I know who Stiles- I meant _why_.”

Derek gazed at him steadily. Scott had the weird sensation that Derek was actually disappointed in him. It was crazy. Scott didn’t like it. 

“You’re dreading the next bad thing. He’s still stuck on the last.” With that cryptic statement, Derek stood. He walked back to his own room, closing it behind him.

Scott took the hint and left the apartment for his mom’s car. 

Stiles. God. What a mess.

Stiles and Scott rarely fought—at least not over anything that couldn’t be resolved over a round of rock, paper, scissors. So Scott didn’t really know what he could do to make things right between them. 

He couldn’t apologize, because apologies were crap. Neither one of them wanted Jackson’s head on a plate—not really. So revenge was out. Scott couldn’t even say Stiles was wrong. He couldn’t say that Stiles would be absolutely safe always. He couldn’t guarantee it—not now, not ever.

The fact of the matter is that Scott was probably going to get Stiles killed one of these days. 

And Scott just couldn’t _deal_ with that. Stiles was his rock, his brother, his freaking _sanity_ , and now there was something worse than alpha werewolves in town. 

It was too easy to imagine Stiles as one of Peter’s victims. It was too easy to imagine Stiles as one of Matt’s targets. And it was way, way too easy to imagine Stiles in Mr. Patel’s shoes.

Maybe they should just stop being friends all together. 

-

Lydia walked away from the coffee shop, a little wobbly, a little confused, and, strangely enough, a lot less stressed out. Natalie followed her out, squinting up at the sun briefly.

It was midday. They were supposed to hang out until four, but they mutually decided that the conversation in the morning had been too heavy. They needed to unwind without each other. There was a fragile gossamer of peace between them, and neither of them wanted to snap it.

So, in agreement, they went back to the hotel in relatively comfortable silence. Lydia was lost in her head, stuck between the feeling of tranquility that came from unloading everything in your head to a sympathetic ear, and the feeling that she had left something vital unsaid.

It came to her in the lobby. She closed her eyes briefly and reached out, curling her fingers around Natalie’s elbow. Natalie looked back at her with confusion, but let Lydia pull her to the side.

“What is it?”

“Before you leave…” Lydia trailed off. She set her teeth into her bottom lip before saying, quickly, “I’m sorry.”

Natalie looked wary. “What for?”

“For being an ass. To you, anyway.” Feeling self-conscious, Lydia released her, rocking back on her heels. “I guess I always thought…” She cleared her throat and forced a small smile. “I guess I always thought they’d get back together, eventually.” Lydia gazed up at Natalie for a moment before saying, in a rush, “My parents really love each other, you know. Like, a lot.”

After a beat, Natalie nodded knowingly. Then she shook her head. “Sometimes love’s not enough.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said thickly, thinking of Jackson. “I’m afraid of that.”

Natalie gazed at her a moment longer. Then her expression smoothed out into a smile. “You know, your dad might be misguided, but he does love you. He thinks the world of you and he’s always hanging onto your every word.” Her eyes turned fond. “He’s always saying ‘Lydia said this’ or ‘Lydia said that’ or ‘Lydia thinks…’” Natalie’s smile stretched into an unrestrained grin. “Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.”

Lydia looked away, her jaw tightening a little. Her father wasn’t very effusive, but that never really mattered to her. She didn’t need him to express his love. She needed him to express his _respect_. And she couldn’t help but feel like Natalie’s words and Jeff’s actions contradicted each other.

Lydia nodded once, tightly, still not looking up. “What does he want from me?”

“Approval.” Natalie shrugged at Lydia’s abrupt look at her. “But what he doesn’t understand is that, while you’re a very intelligent person, you’re still a young woman who has had her heart broken. It shouldn’t be on you to have to give sanction or approval to people who have hurt you.” A rare look of annoyance crossed her face. “But he’s stubborn and he thinks he can change your mind.” The sudden vehemence in her tone echoed the sounds of a lost argument.

Lydia absorbed that carefully.

Natalie’s brief irritation faded like fog in the sunshine. “Just go easy on him.” With that, she left the lobby, hitching her bag over her shoulder slightly as she disappeared around the corner.

Lydia watched her go, eyes narrow. For a moment, she stood there, watching the people around her. 

The patrons. The employers. The texters. The people in mid-one sided conversations. Her focus lingered on the phones, the computers, the _poliziotto_ flirting with the clerk. 

There were a thousand different ways she could get out of this situation. She could tell the policeman. She could borrow a phone and call her mother or even Jackson, whose father would get litigation against Jeff so fast... 

She could tell the clerk. She could go to one of the internet cafes and contact the right person. She could stand in the middle of street and _scream._

And yet… she was just…

She was just so _sick_ of being saved by people. And she didn’t want to get him in trouble, which was the stupidest thing. 

Lydia took pride in anticipating events, isolating variables, and creating the best strategy to cope with the situation. The kicker? She hadn’t anticipated this at all. He’d blindsided her and left her feeling angry and helpless, like a child.

Jeff took pride in anticipating people’s moves and controlling a situation. These things that made him a good businessman made him a poor husband.

Lydia tipped her chin up slightly, nodding to herself. He hurt her in her pride. She was going to hurt him in his.

She was not going to play by the rules of his game—not now, not ever. The faster he learned that, the better it would be for everyone.

-

The sound of the ticking clock was near deafening. Jackson dug his nails into the arms of his chair before relaxing. 

“You’ve gotten time to get to know me, right?” He looked up at Bishop with a crooked smile. “What’s my psychosis?”

“Jackson…”

He winced at the stern look she shot him, raising both hands in the air. “I’m not- I’m not trying to provoke, okay? It’s just… you’re hard to read.” He scooted forward to the edge of his seat, pushing his sleeves up. “Give me _something_ I can work with.”

He was supposed to be focusing on this self-improvement, know thyself bullshit with the shrink and he’d been kind of… ignoring it. A lot. He paid a kid down the street fifty bucks to take the online anti-bullying course for him. Then he’d worn Robert down until he folded and handed over the car keys, three weeks ahead of schedule.

That had caused a huge fight at their house, but he hadn’t really cared. He was just biding his time until people stopped talking to him about this crap. The sooner people stopped talking, the sooner he could forget all about it.

Meanwhile, Derek had talked down a freaking _alpha_ pack from slaughtering them all. To save face, Jackson pretended that it didn’t bother him, but it did. It really put things into perspective.

Jackson had dodged a lot of bullets this last year. The least he could do was take this shrink thing seriously.

Bishop looked down at her notes with a frown. 

They already covered how Jackson viewed himself as a work in progress. Internal motivation for personal excellence had been both a gift and a curse for him, it seemed. His narcissism had been touched on, as well as his eagerness to please. She hadn’t pulled any punches about Lydia either, which was new. 

“You came in here because of a fight in school, correct?” Jackson nodded wordlessly. Bishop lifted an eyebrow, assessing him. “You don’t strike me as a physically violent person.”

Jackson smirked, making a circle in front of his nose. “Is it the face?” She blinked at him once, expression steady. Jackson wilted. “Um, no. Not really. I… I’ve bullied, sometimes? But I usually stick to looming and shoving.” There was no point in sugar coating it.

“But not this time.” She folded her hands on her desk. “May I ask why?”

“I- he’s. It’s just.” As usual, Jackson couldn’t put his hatred of Stiles into actual words. He felt flustered and put on the spot, even though he asked to be there. 

“ _You don’t understand,_ ” he blurted out finally.

“I’m trying to,” Bishop said gently. She set her notes to the side, leaning forward. “I’ve been seeing you on and off for the last week. I can tell you’re holding a lot back, but you still have revealed more about yourself than you think. In fact, so much that I bet I can guess who you attacked in that locker room.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re a shrink, not a psychic.” A shiver of nervousness made his throat clench. Was she bluffing or was he really that predictable? 

He plastered on a condescending smirk. “Who have I told you about? Lydia, Allison, McCall, Danny—you think it’s Danny, don’t you?” When she just watched him quietly, he paused, trying to think of other people he talked about over his last few sessions. “Then there’s Cody, who’s gone off in the deep end lately, and… did I mention Isaac? Or Brian? Or Derek? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not Derek.” He dropped all pretenses of being amused and leaned forward, demanding, “Who?”

“You attacked Stilinski.”

Jackson froze, staring at her. Then he leaned back, laughing hoarsely and with no real amusement. “How- How did you know it was him? I _never_ talk about him.”

Bishop’s gaze never wavered. “On the contrary. When we last met, you mentioned him no less than seven times. Which, admittedly, is a drop from the time before that—nine—and quite a bit below your record high, sixteen.”

Jackson stared at her for a moment, stunned, and then found himself trying to shrug it off. “So I talk about my classmates a lot. So what?”

“The frequency is ‘what’,” she said, flipping open her notes. “You’ve expressed strong distain for both McCall and Derek, and yet you’ve only mentioned them four times each during all of our sessions combined—not counting today, of course. Additionally, you expressed strong affection for both Lydia and Danny, and yet trying to get you to talk about them is like pulling teeth.” Bishop looked up from the notes with a considering look. “So my question to myself is this: if this Stilinski kid is truly a neutral character, then why is he getting more mentions than both my client’s loved ones and enemies?”

“Uh, because he’s annoying. _Duh_.”

Bishop snorted. “That’s the thing, Jackson. I’d buy that…. if it was consistent with the way you talk about him. But it’s really not.” She shook her head. “This kid, this boy you attacked? You don’t hate him, not the way you think you do. You _admire_ him. Grudgingly, reluctantly, but you do it. You’re angry at him, yes, but not because of him. You’re angry at him because of _you_.”

There was a moment of silence. And then- “What kind of ass backwards thinking is that?” Jackson blurted out, outraged.

Bishop raised her hands. “Hear me out,” she said placatingly, then dropped her arms back to the table. “This goes back to you—all the anger, all those hopeless feelings, that loss of agency.” She gestured at him with both hands. “You want _excellence._ You want to be the best. But you’ve had a rough semester, what with all those murders and those attacks? That would shake anyone and it certainly has shaken you.” 

Jackson scowled. She didn’t even know the half of it. 

“You’ve stumbled this semester,” Bishop said with feeling, continuing. “You’ve fallen. For the first time in your existence, you looked around and noticed, hey, you’re not on the top of the food chain anymore.” Jackson jerked his head back to her, startled. “You noticed it and it ate at you and made you seethe. You tried to knock down the competition, the threat—like when you went after McCall for his steroid usage?” She paused then, her eyebrows squeezing together in an expression of sympathy. “But it didn’t work, did it? Everything just got worse and harder and you fell even further.”

“Yeah,” Jackson breathed, feeling raw. His claws were digging into the arms of the chair.

“And then, this kid,” she said suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. “He comes out of nowhere. He wasn’t like you. He was a bottom feeder. A background guy. Someone you didn’t even _notice_.” She leaned forward slightly, eyebrows knitted together. “But, this last term? He excelled. He rose above all the rest. Whatever you wanted to be this semester, you failed. And where you failed, he succeeded.” 

Jackson absorbed this, feeling hollow inside. Because she was… she was right. Stiles wasn’t even a fucking werewolf. How did he manage to do everything so right? How did he manage to do well in school, save people, save _Lydia_ , be a hero, and score the winning shot of their championship game? How did he do all that just as he was?

The bite was supposed to make Jackson _better_ than everyone else. Why did it ruin his life?

“Well,” Bishop said with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t know the exact events that perspired but- Jackson?”

“I gotta-” Jackson had risen unsteadily, knocking his chair over. “I gotta go.” He was going to be sick.

“Jackson!” Bishop was rising out of her chair, reaching for him.

Jackson fled.

-

Stiles leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the corner of his desk. He palmed his phone musingly. He hadn’t received a call from Lydia in two days. Did he offend her with his bucket pic? He’d thought it was funny…

Stiles pressed the edge of his phone against his mouth, frowning. He had no idea why she’d give him the task of watching fashion trends. Out of all their classmates, he was probably the worst choice for that. To him, things were either clothes or not clothes. At a push, he could identify a turtle neck from a t-shirt, but that was about it. So he didn’t take it as seriously as she meant him to, but he’d gotten the impression that she was amused by him anyway.

Had the bucket picture pushed her over her tolerance level? Ugh. Stiles scowled at his phone. How do you unsend these things?

He closed his eyes, tipping his head up to the ceiling. Then he lifted his phone in front of his face, eyes wide open. Frowning, he typed a quick _I’m sorry_ to her but paused before sending it. A yellow post-it note on his desk caught his eye.

He changed his mind. Sitting up and setting his feet against the ground, he left the apology unsent and instead started dialing the number on the piece of paper. Not really expecting anything, he lifted it to his ear, hearing it ring and ring and-

“Hello?” A lightly accented voice greeted him. French, female, middle aged—almost definitely the woman he was looking for.

That being said, Stiles was so startled by her that he almost dropped his phone. “Hi. Um. Hi. Yeah, big fan of your work. I was wondering if you could tell me more about your book, uh-” Stiles checked the post-it note. “ _Death and Arcane Lore._ ”

Her voice warmed. “Well, what part of it? It’s a four hundred page book.”

Stiles set the phone between his shoulder and his ear and started up his computer. “Specifically, can you tell me more about the chapter about death warnings?”

Once the computer warmed up, he opened the file deceptively named _how to fix a sink_. The first page read ‘Death and Arcane Lore, written by Dr. Jane Cotillard’.

He was flabbergasted that he’d gotten the world’s foremost expert on death warnings on the phone, but he pushed forward valiantly. He lied and said he was attached to a local university and doing a grad research project on certain aspects of parapsychology. She seemed surprised that he’d gotten her phone number but was willing to let it go to talk about what was clearly her favorite subject.

“A death warning is an intimation of death from an extrasensory source. A normal sensory warning might be you seeing a car speeding your way right before it hits you.” Her accent thickened slightly as she hit a rolling stride into an articulate spiel of a well practiced lecture. “An extrasensory warning might be you having a vision of that same incident, minutes before it happens. Death warnings had manifest in a number of different ways. Déjà vu is one of the most experienced-“

Stiles already knew all of this. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re talking about, like, psychic experiences where someone knows something is going to happen before it happens.”

“Er, yes?”

“The person is basically their own warning, right?” Stiles said, tapping through the chapter on his computer. “But what about when a person isn’t their own warning? What if they’re told?”

There was a pause. “Like a medium passing on a message from the other side? A reading of palms? A-”

Stiles shook his head vehemently. “No, take all the humans out of it.” He paused his scrolling, realizing he needed to be direct. “I’m talking about black dogs.”

“Black dogs,” she echoed, clearing her throat. “Such omens are hard to interpret. In fact, they’re not studied much in my field.”

“But you do know about them.”

She seemed offended that he would even ask. “Of course.”

What she didn’t say that is that most people regarded black dog omens as superstitious nonsense. Stiles supposed that, in a field that seriously studied ‘superstitious nonsense’, you had to draw the line somewhere.

Stiles grinned. “Okay, great. I was hoping for that. I have so many questions.” He flipped over the post-it note, squinting at the writing there. “One, do they eat? Two, what do they eat? Three, do they sleep? Four, what is their opinion on squeaky toys? Five, do they-” There was an abrupt click on the other line. Stiles frowned at his phone. “Hello?” She had hung up on him. “ _Rude_.” 

Still frowning, Stiles opened his window. “She hung up on me!” he called out, waving his phone.

From where the death omen was pacing the property line, Lady chuffed, looking unimpressed. Or super impressed. It was hard to tell with that furry face. 

Yes, _lady_. Stiles had sucked it up and checked, okay? Gosh.

Stiles hung out of his window, watching her as she got distracted by a butterfly. The butterfly, like most living things, didn’t notice her. It continued to lazily circle between two bushes, entirely ignorant of the death omen that tracked it excitedly.

Lady was almost like a real dog. But not really. Every time he forgot she was a death omen, Lady had a way of reminding him—like now, when she pounced on the butterfly, flying straight through it and the tree behind. She seemed super miffed about this.

From what Stiles had seen of her, he’d concluded that Lady had a selective intangibility. She never jumped through Stiles—not ever. She could leap through walls, but would only whine piteously at doors until they opened for her. 

She could touch things, but she had to really focus. Stiles spent a good hour watching her trying to pick up a tennis ball yesterday. It was hilarious. Not that she always failed, mind you. With practice, she got better, and it never failed to please her when she managed to pick something up and drop it into his lap, covered with drool and dirt.

Whatever Lady was at the core, what she really wanted to be was someone’s dog. She was trying very, very hard to mimic one and, for his part, Stiles was mostly content to let her do so.

There was the thing about food though. She was entirely disinterested in edible things, even meat. She was really not a living creature. If it wasn’t thrown, she didn’t want it.

Stiles had played with her for two days so far in the preserve. There was no game she liked better than fetch, and Stiles was willing to throw. More than willing to. Ecstatic to, even.

It was like the opposite of a vicious cycle—it was a happy cycle. The happier she was, the happier Stiles was, and the happier Stiles was, the happier she was. Happy, happy, _happy_.

The sad fact of the matter was that Lady filled a hole that Stiles hadn’t realized he had. Stiles missed having friends, missed having company. And while Stiles didn’t quite understand what Lady was, she was never not excited to see him. He needed that.

Still hanging out of the window, Stiles frowned. Lady was back to pacing the property line. Even before he confronted her, she never crossed it. A few internet searches had revealed that what was keeping her back was not manners, but probably hearth magic, the low level of protection that naturally surrounded places that people called “home”. She had to be invited in.

Generally, the consensus online was that you don’t invite anything in—not a spirit, not a demon, and certainly not a vampire. They didn’t mention anything about black dogs, though.

Stiles let his hand hang out of the window, pausing mid-beckon, wondering, briefly, if he was making a mistake. Then he shook his head, extending his hand out to her. “Come in, silly,” he said quietly.

Lady stared up at him. Then she barked once and bolted towards the house, tail wagging happily. 

Every door in the house, including his closet, slammed open with a bang. His heart rate hadn’t gotten a chance to calm down by the time she slid into his room and jumped up on him. Then Stiles was trying not to drown in her happy face kisses and glee drool.

“You’re so creepy,” Stiles said, dodging her tongue. “Now who’s going to close all those doors, huh?”

Lady hesitated, lowering herself to all fours. She tipped her head up, considering that. Then, abruptly, all doors in slammed shut in unison. 

There was a pause.

“You’re so creepy,” Stiles said again, sitting down in his computer chair. Then, after a beat- “Now who wants neck scratchies?” 

Lady danced on her paws, then careened at him so quickly, she ended up head butting his stomach. 

Oh yeah. The fearsome omen of death was _totally_ down for neck scratchies. 

-

Scott let himself into the vet clinic, ready to start his shift. He was exhausted, having gotten little sleep the previous night. For hours, he just laid there, staring at his ceiling and imagining all the millions of ways everything could go wrong. But he didn’t mind coming into work. 

Besides the steady paycheck, he had a ton of reasons to like his job. It was calming. He helped people. His boss was great. And Deaton, of all people, understood compartmentalizing. He didn’t swing by on Scott’s breaks to talk about alphas or invisible monsters. No, once they were on the clock, it was like none of that stuff existed. When Deaton was in vet mode, he stayed in vet mode.

It was nice. Maybe that was why this was so jarring.

Scott froze in front of the clinic door, eavesdropping. He could hear Deaton from here, holding a one-sided conversation, rattling off facts with all the distant monologue of a coroner going over a corpse.

“It takes about six and a half weeks for them to die,” Deaton was saying dispassionately. “The pain is described as a blow, akin to a kick, but then it pinches and adheres. This is what I believe is the actual bite. The bite itself lasts somewhere between ten to thirty seconds.” 

Scott heard the ruffling of papers. Deaton was in his office, on the phone. Frowning, he started for the open counter, ducking under the open divider.

“The bite results in dehydration and the development of an ability to look upon the creature, as well as… various psychological symptoms that comes when one understands they are being hunted like prey.” Deaton cleared his throat. “The creature has a scent, but no evident tangible presence other than what can be felt. It is my belief that it operates between worlds, this and the next, but that’s just conjecture on my part.”

Scott hesitated outside of Deaton’s open door, resting his knuckles on the frame without knocking.

There was a pause, then Deaton turned slightly to look at him. “While identifying the creature might be as simple as using a certain aid to heighten one’s sight, I strongly advise against it. When the victims looked upon the creature with their new ability, it seemed to agitate it and encourage more frequent feeding.” He broke his stare with Scott. ”Please let me know what you think. I appreciate your input, as always.”

With that, Deaton hung up the phone. Then he looked up with a faint, but genuine smile.

“Hello, Scott. You’re early.”

Scott nodded, stepping inside his boss’s office. “It seems a little odd to leave something like that on an answering machine, don’t you think?”

Deaton shrugged amiably. “I couldn’t exactly write her, nor speak to her directly.” After a beat, his smile deepened. “My colleague lives in Nova Scotia. Plus, she’s blind and my Braille is very rusty.” 

“She knows more about this kind of thing?”

“Yes. As she might come to me with questions about werewolves, I go to her with questions about…” Deaton paused, considering his words. Then, with a dip of his head, he admitted, “…things people generally do not want to see.”

Scott nodded. “They let Dr. Winfield home.” He thought about the surgeon in the hospital, the terror she reeked of, and grimaced. “‘The symptoms didn’t warrant further attention,’” he parroted tightly.

Deaton didn’t look surprised. “The doctor is at the earliest stage of the creature’s feeding. Mr. Patel, on the other hand, was on the very last.”

Scott’s teeth clenched slightly at the reminder. He stared at the floor blindly, hating himself for not saving the poor guy. Hating that, of the two of them, only one had been successful at moving someone out of the line of that monster’s fire.

The phone rang. Scott lifted his head up and, guided by habit and months of manning phones as a part of his job, he lurched towards it instinctively. Wordlessly, Deaton extended an arm over his chest, halting him. 

The answering machine picked up the call. There was pause and then-

“ _ **DEATON**_.” The voice was howling—not like a wolf, but like living bark given a voice with the power and inevitability of thunder and lighting. 

Scott clapped both hands over his ears because the voice—it punctured, it _pierced_. Even with his hands in place, he could hear it, throbbing to a beat of a never-ending drum roll in his head. 

There was a sound like a wind storm, like a tornado touching down on the earth and then…

The sound gentled into a whisper. “ _ **While there are many creatures in this world and the next, few find value in the consumption of human living flesh. Life force, however, is a different matter.**_ ”

There was a rolling noise, like a wave crashing into the shore. Above them, a light bulb flared and exploded. Deaton didn’t even flinch. 

“ _ **Life force is as ambrosia to those of the dead or of the never living. Devoured life force can have a negative effect on the human body, namely a wasting.**_ ” There was a hushed noise, like a death rattle or the cracking noise of a rock breaking down the middle over centuries, and the voice lowered even further, no longer hurting Scott’s ears. “ _ **I can think of precisely six different creatures that operate as you described. However, none of them feed like that. Not at that rate.**_ ” The voice deepened slightly. “ _ **You’re extrapolating from a population of one. You have no idea what is a signifier of species and what is a signifier of changed circumstance.**_ ” Deaton looked down, chastised. “ _ **You advise against looking upon its form. I advise the exact opposite. You do not have time to play detective. Be brave, Deaton.**_ ”

There was a pause and then a gentle click at the other end. The phone started smoking, smelling horribly of ozone and burnt plastic.

Scott stopped pressing down on his ears, body slowly uncurling as he gradually convinced his body that the voice wasn’t going to come back. His heart was racing like mad, fluttering away in his chest. 

“You know,” he said at length, “I always wondered why you stocked up on phones.”

“Now you know.” Deaton crossed the room, gently poking at the steaming machine with a pen. “Some of my friends and allies have a powerful presence that no medium can diminish.” He nudged it off the table and into the trash. Then he lifted his head at the sound of a gently ringing bell. “Ah. Patients.” After a beat, he gave Scott a pointed look.

Taking the hint, Scott left to man the front desk. 

It was a busy shift. Within the first half, they had dealt with a dog with arthritis, a cat who was ripping her own fur out, a parrot that ate a wedding ring, a litter of puppies that needed their first shots, and, lastly, a tearful boy’s dead lizard who, as it turned out, just happened to be sleeping.

In the lull between appointments and walk-ins, while replacing Deaton’s supplies in each room, Scott found himself staring at a wall, distracted and chewing over that phone call, blow by blow. Finally, unable to handle it anymore, he dropped the bag of cotton swabs and headed for Deaton. 

Deaton was in the back room, putting away files. His back was to Scott.

“We’re not going to talk about the phone call?” Scott asked, voice rough.

Deaton paused, then turned around. “What is there to talk about?”

“You said there was a way to look at it. Something to enhance sight.” Sight to see the unseen, he thought. Then it all clicked. “Like the stuff Stiles knocked over two weeks ago?”

“Exactly the stuff your friend spilled, in fact,” Deaton said with a concerned frown. He looked off in the middle distance, voice becoming hushed. “If I had known these things were in town, I wouldn’t have allowed your friend out of this office until it had worn off.”

“So. If you doused me with it, maybe-“

“Absolutely not,” Deaton said, snapping his gaze back to Scott. “It’s incredibly dangerous. Just looking at it agitates it.”

“So I’ll be careful.”

“And I’m putting my foot down. No.” Aggravated, Scott started to turn, but Deaton caught his arm before he could leave. He settled his hands on Scott’s shoulders, squeezing gently even as Scott’s jaw worked and he stared anywhere but at his boss. “I know you’re feeling frustrated. No one has found Gerard’s body, alphas are in town, creatures are lurking around where your mother works-” A snarl was ripped out of Scott’s throat at that, a vicious and rough one. He clapped a hand over his face, mortified at the feeling of growing fangs under his palm.

But Deaton didn’t budge. “I understand where you’re coming from. Believe me, Scott.” Scott looked up at him, hand still over his face. Deaton looked earnest, concerned. “But the last thing I want to do is paint a target on your back.” During all this, his heart was steady—thump thump, thump thump. It wasn’t a lie.

Scott didn’t know what it said about him that his immediate response was to try and catch Deaton in a lie.

Oh wait, yeah he did. A shitty gene donor.

His anger subsided. “But what about her?” he asked quietly, the shift fading away. He backed up, putting some distance between the two of them.

“We have six weeks to figure out what it is. _Safely._ Then we can help Dr. Winfield.”

“While a woman suffers and is fed on?” Scott challenged, appalled.

Deaton crossed his arms over his chest. “We can… take certain precautions,” he allowed. “Hearth magic has been used many times to protect one from the presence of something other. It’s not always a perfect magic, but…” He stared off at the wall for a moment, as if calculating. Then he blinked, expression clearing, and said, “In the best of scenarios, we can assure this surgeon’s safety for weeks—even months. Maybe even a year. In the worst…” He paused, then lifted his shoulders. “We can at least buy her a little more time while we figure out what’s going on and without _either_ of us turning into the creature’s next victim.”

Scott’s jaw tightened in frustration. His hands fisted at his sides as he glared down at the floor. Some person was being victimized now— _right_ now. Scott didn’t want to wait or plan anything or even figure out what the monster was. He just wanted to make it stop.

But Deaton was right. They had to be smart. They had to wait—wait, like they did with Gerard. That had paid off in the end, didn’t it? All the terror and self-doubt and anticipation of waiting… it was worth it. Wasn’t it?

Scott consciously relaxed his fists. Then, after taking a deep breath, he looked up. “What do you need me to do?”

-

Stiles was slumped over his laptop, blearily watching a movie on the screen. Try as he might, he just couldn’t get into it.

Stiles let his left hand hang, fingers reaching until they hit fur. Lady had wrapped herself around his computer chair and was laying down, but she was big enough that he didn’t have to reach far to rub his palm against her head.

The first time he touched her seemed so long ago, but he remembered how she felt—cold, sticky, and charged. Her fur was almost silky now and she only occasionally zapped him with cold and creepy crawly feelings. 

He liked to think they were just getting used to each other.

Stiles watched the movie for another twenty minutes. Then he was distracted by the shifting of Lady’s body and the poking of her cold nose on his ankle. He looked down at her, frowning. She stared up at him with big eyes, face framed by her paws. 

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m sore. I need to rest.”

She just blinked up at him, pale blue gaze moving slowly from him to the window and back again. She shimmed in a whole body wiggle, then looked at his shoes before pointedly looking back up at him.

He was…

He was _weak_

“Fine!” Stiles said, throwing his hands up in the air. He shut down his computer and jumped out of his chair, trying to shove on his shoes one handedly while standing. Lady popped up to her feet, let out a trio of her low, intimidating barks—a sound that was entirely at odds with her madly wagging tail.

“Go outside. I’ll meet you there.”

Lady barked once, then trotted out the door.

When she was gone, he let his grin widen as he grabbed his crosse and practice balls before racing down the steps. He met Lady at the property line and then they were jogging into the preserve. Stiles immediately launched a ball into the brush, laughing out loud as Lady skidded after it.

They spent the next three hours running around the preserve, Stiles throwing things for her to find and Lady finding them and dropping them at his feet triumphantly. Stiles’ arm was sore and his palm was starting to blister a bit, but he’d never felt so… quiet in his head. Never so alive and present and careless. 

All good things came to an end though. Stiles stopped the play, squinting at the setting sun. It was starting to get late. 

They trekked back to the house together, Lady weaving in and out of Stiles’ way. She paused to sniff things and poke at things with her nose, but she always bounced back to him, tail flapping.

When they reached the property line, Stiles paused, looking at her. She looked back at him. 

Then, with a slight bow, Stiles gestured for her to go first. “After you, my Lady.” He grinned.

Lady chuffed softly and crept over the line of the property, checking with him as if to make sure she still had permission. Stiles shook his head at her, amused, and went into the house, letting her wander where ever she wished. 

He contently ate cereal for dinner. He checked his messages, peacefully noting that his dad wouldn’t be back for a while. He took a shower and climbed into his pajamas, singing softly to himself. Then he walked into his room, mildly curious what Lady had been up to during all this. 

She had climbed up on the end of his bed and was standing on the mattress carefully, like a giraffe might over thin ice. She spooked at his sudden entrance, looking guilty. Stiles rubbed at his skull with his towel, aware he should make a stand and tell her to sleep on the floor. 

“Do you shed?” he asked curiously.

She, naturally, didn’t answer. Stiles rolled his eyes and climbed onto the bed with her, carefully moving her bulk so that he could get in too.

Feeling a sudden weight as the day’s activities caught up with him, he flopped onto his pillow, barely getting the blanket over his hips. 

He fell asleep mid-thought. 

Seconds later, it seemed, Stiles was being shaken awake by his father.

His dad was leaning over him, a knee in the corner of Stiles’ bed. The room was dark. “Stiles?”

Stiles frowned up at him, rubbing a hand over his face. He groggily tried to focus on his dad’s face. Stiles made a complaining noise, covering his face briefly as he sat up. He felt like there was a wall of fog between his mind and reality, cutting him off physically and emotionally.

After a beat, Stiles dropped his hands, looking at his dad. He looked serious. His frown cut deep marks into his face and, behind the wall, Stiles dimly started to understand that something was wrong. The wall started to fade away.

The sheriff smiled tightly, leaning back. “Hey, kiddo. Sorry to interrupt your sleep.” After a moment, he got off the corner of Stiles’ bed. “Can you come downstairs?”

Stiles nodded and mumbled an agreement. He got to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom, splashing his face with water. The stairs creaked under his dad’s weight as he took the few steps down first. 

Stiles yawned hugely at his reflection in the mirror and moved to follow. He paused briefly in his own doorway, looking in. He watched as Lady crawled under his pillow, woofing softly. Stiles took courage from her complete non-concern and went down the stairs two at a time. Not quite coordinated enough yet, he tripped off the last step, barely catching himself before he hit the floor. 

“Dad?” Stiles called out croakily, not immediately seeing him.

“Back here.”

Stiles followed the voice to the back of the house, rubbing at his left eye with the back of his hand. He paused in the doorway, fingers gliding across the frame.

The kitchen wasn’t empty. Okay, well, he expected that, right? His dad was there, yes, he’d anticipated that, but so was Deputy Boyd. They were both standing on the opposite site of the table from him. His dad was facing the window, arms crossed and looking out, while Deputy Boyd faced him, stance wide and tense. She watched him like a hawk.

Stiles tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling kind of… exposed in his pajamas, but she wasn’t much better off than him. Her uniform, her badge, and her gun were gone. Instead, she was wearing a pair of jeans and a loose pajama top. 

There was an acrid smell in the air. Stiles sniffed, trying to place it. “Was there another fire?”

“Uh, yes,” his dad answered, turning away from the window. 

“Where were you four hours ago?” the deputy asked, eyes narrow.

Blinking sleepily, Stiles looked up at the clock on the wall and did the math. “Uh, in the woods?”

His dad’s face fell. “Doing what, Stiles?” he asked, looking tired and sad.

The truth was obviously out of the question. “Just… walking. Why?”

Deputy Boyd and the sheriff looked at each other briefly. Then his dad was hunching a shoulder at her, looking away. Stiles had a vague feeling that he’d just handed the reigns of this over to his deputy. Something about that made Stiles feel worried and not a little sick. 

Deputy Boyd pushed out a chair, gesturing for Stiles to sit. Cautiously, Stiles did so, hackles raised, feeling as if he was being led into a trap.

“I live right near the edge of the preserve,” Deputy Boyd said. “The shed behind my house burned down tonight.”

That, at least, explained the slightly crazed look on her face, the charred bits of her nightshirt. “Oh. Sorry to hear that, I guess.”

His dad cleared his throat. Sounding horribly distant, he said woodenly, “Because of Deputy Boyd’s vigilance and swift action, we managed to retrieve some of the startup material for the fire.” 

At his nod, Deputy Boyd slapped an evidence bag down on the table. Inside the clear bag was a half-burnt, crumpled up piece of Chemistry homework with Stiles’ name on it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a good person is harder than they make it look on TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: bullying, assault, attempted assault, unhappy child-parent relations, stalking (with benign, ill-thought through intent).
> 
> Approaching the close--and climax--of this story! (yay) The next chapter is mostly done, so it should be up soon. It may even be up tonight if Teen Wolf doesn't destroy my will to edit.

Stiles had his head in his hands. His thumbs scraped restlessly past his hairline and pressed in firmly. He had a pounding headache already. 

“So,” Deputy Boyd said slowly, drawing the word out. She flipped a pen between her fingers, looking up from her notes to stare at him with narrow eyes. “You’re suggesting someone walked in here, took your backpack, then went back out to the preserve, which you already admitted you were at, and set a fire on my property with your old homework?”

When she put it that way, it did seem overly complicated. After a beat, Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know—yeah, okay? Yeah. That seems reasonable to me.” When she just kept looking at him, expression stony, Stiles sought back up. “ _Dad_.”

The sheriff was standing still, arms crossed over his chest. At Stiles’ impatient hand gesture, he sighed and said, “Did you inform anyone that your backpack had been stolen?”

Stiles wilted at that. “No? I didn’t actually... notice.” Deputy Boyd made an affirming noise, writing it down. Bristling at that, Stiles snapped, “Come on, it’s summer. Why the hell would I notice?” When she ignored him, he looked back up at his dad pleadingly. The sheriff didn’t visibly respond.

Stiles dragged his gaze away from him and fisted his hands on the table. His heart was racing—no, galloping. Pounding so hard, Stiles wondered if it was going to pound right out of his chest. Usually, when he was accused of stuff, he’d actually done the thing. And while he was doing the thing, he was also thinking of how to talk his way out of being (rightfully) accused of said thing. So even when he was caught, he was calm, mentally prepared for the impending interrogation.

But this? This was out of the blue and entirely unexpected. He had no idea how to defend himself. All he could think to say was _I swear to God I didn’t do it this time_. He didn’t think that would go over well.

Frustrated, Stiles leaned back and hooked a hand behind the chair. Lady licked his palm soothingly. She’d snuck down the stairs a few minutes ago, just as Stiles’ panic hit overdrive. Her eyes remained blue, never creeping into that magnesium bright glow Stiles looked for and dreaded. 

But she only warned for death. She didn’t warn for imprisonment. _God._

His dad’s cell rang. He glanced at the screen before lifting it slightly in their direction. “I have to take this,” he said and stepped out of the kitchen. Stiles heard him walk away, murmuring a greeting, leaving Stiles alone with Deputy Boyd.

After a beat, Stiles ducked his head, peering at her through squinted eyes.

She stared at him for a moment before snorting and shaking her head. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said bitterly, leaning back in her chair. She closed her notes with a quick little snap, glaring at him over the table.

“I’m sorry?” Stiles shifted slightly, not sure he heard that right. “What did you say?”

The deputy stared at him with contempt. “You think I don’t know what a lying kid looks like? You think your dad doesn’t know?” She shot forward suddenly, stabbing her finger at the evidence bag still in the middle of the table. Stiles flinched. “We do, and, one of these days, you’re gonna get caught. If not for this, then for something else. You’re going to get caught red handed and no one here will blink twice.”

Stiles blinked rapidly. That actually… hurt. Nevertheless, he nodded once and said, calmly, “I guess you’re playing the bad cop this evening.” Her expression darkened.

His dad chose that moment to walk in. “They put the fire out,” he said to her, sitting down at the table. “Your house is fine. Your shed, on the other hand…”

Her jaw worked slightly. “I expected that.”

There was a long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see his dad shift and turn to him, as if he was about to ask something, but Stiles didn’t look up from where he was staring down at the table. His dad hesitated.

Deputy Boyd cleared her throat. “So. You have an explanation for my shed. What about the other fires?”

Stiles looked up slowly. “What about the other fires?” When she just raised an eyebrow at him, Stiles shifted his gaze to his father. “I… haven’t really been keeping up on this.”

“You’re the only common link between them all,” she said leadingly.

“Between all the ones _near structures_ ,” his dad interjected quickly, shooting her a look.

Stiles pulled back, considering that. Then, in an undertone, he said, “Really?” His dad nodded with a bleak expression. “Even Finstock’s?”

“How do you know about that one?” Deputy Boyd asked quickly, pouncing on that.

His dad snorted, smearing a hand over his face. Also feeling second hand embarrassment, Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, he practically did a jig in the middle of the locker room. Everyone at school already knows about it.” Even the ones in Italy. 

Looking a little disappointed, the deputy turned back to her notes. “Well, it’s not a stretch to guess your motivation for that one-”

“- _if he’s the arsonist_ ,” the sheriff muttered.

“It is a stretch, actually,” Stiles snapped at them, “otherwise I’d be in the station right now, being read my rights.” 

“Stiles-“

“No,” Stiles said sharply, glaring at his dad. “So your arsonist usually strikes at night in the preserve, right? And I’m in the preserve at night sometimes—you caught me. But do you know who is also there? _My freaking alibi._ ”

His dad suddenly had the look of someone who was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. “Scott,” he blurted out. “You were with Scott. Okay, that’s good. We can talk to him, corroborate your story-“

Stiles leaned back slightly, anger vanishing. He-

He may have made an error here.

“Dad,” Stiles interrupted, wincing. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t with Scott.” Not recently, anyway.

Boyd’s mom lifted an eyebrow and looked at Stiles’ dad. His dad hesitated, looking back at her, before saying, “Then who were you with?”

Stiles fidgeted, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. 

Derek was going to kill him.

-

“I told you, Lydia. You decide the length of your stay here, not me.”

Lydia slammed her wallet and driver’s license back on the dresser. She didn’t have to pretend at the anger there. It was there, simmering, but quieter. Believe it or not? This was all going according to plan. 

Not ten minutes earlier, she approached on Jeff’s hotel room door. It had been implied early on that Jeff’s fiancée was in a different hotel, but, when a groggy, wild haired Natalie opened the door under Lydia’s sharp knocks, that was revealed to be the lie that it was. 

After she’d out-awkwarded Natalie right out of the room, she waited for her father to finish getting ready in the bathroom. And, while he was shaving, brushing his teeth, and asking about Natalie and Lydia’s day, Lydia silently crouched down in front of the room’s safe and cleaned the number pad with a bleach wipe. Then she went back to the door, leaving no trace of her activities behind.

A couple of barbed comments about pre-nuptials and adultery later, Jeff was confiscating her stuff again, scooping up her wallet and driver’s license. He went immediately to the safe, crouching in front of it.

She didn’t try to peek.

“Fascinating.” Her voice wobbled slightly. “So you’re a bully as well as a thief and a liar.” She had planned to irritate him enough to make him demand her ‘won’ items back, but it still bothered her to have to give them up.

Jeff just shook his head. “You’re just making things worse on yourself, Lydia.” And that? That _infuriated_ her. 

He was so calm, even when he was hurting, even when he was hurting _her_. He was so confident he had the situation under control. That he had _her_ under control.

“What? All I’m saying is that it’s an interesting skill set to pass onto your unborn child.”

Jeff froze. Then he looked over his shoulder at her. “I- what?”

Game. Set. Match.

Lydia feigned surprise. “What? You didn’t know?” She tsked, tapping her forehead. “The proof’s in the decaf. Surprised you didn’t notice. Ciao.”

With that, she turned and stepped outside the room, closing the door behind her and not feeling bad not one little bit that she had left them there, kneeling and frozen under the weight of that new information. 

In the hallway, though, she hesitated, because Natalie was there. Natalie had smoothed her hair back a bit and looked more awake. She had her arms crossed low over her stomach and was looking down at the floor. When she saw Lydia’s feet, she looked up and gave her a smile, albeit a wary one.

Natalie had her reasons for not telling him about the baby. Lydia had pretty much invalidated that to win a point against her father. She was aware of this. She felt the slightest chill of discomfort before she tipped her chin up and flipped her hair over her shoulder, leaving Natalie to deal with the discord Lydia had sown.

If the choice was between her or Natalie, she was going to pick Lydia every time.

Completely ignoring the existence of her father and his fiancée, she went on with the rest of her day. She spent a good chunk of it developing a rapport with the clerks at the front desk during their different shifts. She had a plan for everything and she had a plan for them too.

Lydia looked up prices and flights. She circled the hotel, gazing up at the window that marked her father’s room. She plotted. She schemed. She toyed with the idea of calling her mother, but stopped, wanting to see Jeff’s face when Lydia, and Lydia alone, slipped the noose.

But late that same night, she tipped her head up from where she was lounging on her bed. She could hear Natalie and Jeff arguing in the next room, voices rising and falling with emotions.

She found herself frowning, something unfamiliar and biting twisting up in her gut. It felt a lot like guilt.

It didn’t matter anyway. Phase 2 was now in effect and she was that much closer to getting home. 

-

Jackson slammed his car door shut, shoving his keys in his pocket. He paused, looking up at the main BHHS building, still a little thrown by the quiet brought by summer. There were still people around, of course, but not nearly as many as during the term.

He snorted and starting walking towards the lacrosse practice field, hands in his pockets. Heat made the skin on his arms prickle up slightly under his jacket. It was still morning and still a little cool, but the afternoon would only bring more heat. They were predicting a heat wave by the end of the week and Jackson had yet to decide if he was going to spend it indoors and under a vent, or outside and in a pool.

Jackson’s curfew had been extended a few hours. He wanted to celebrate the loosening of the noose while he could with Danny. He had no doubt it would tighten again when his parents realized he wasn’t going to Bishop’s office anymore. Of the few things they demanded of him, that was one of the few that was nonnegotiable.

Jackson decided to surprise Danny on the field and convince him to play hooky, but, as he walked onto the lacrosse field, frowning, he noticed it was completely deserted. This was highly unusual. Even when most of the people were occupied in the locker room, there was usually one unlucky ‘volunteer’ lugging out equipment and setting up water stations. Not only was that person missing, but so was all the equipment. 

Jackson circled the field for a moment, frowning. Then he pulled out his phone and texted Danny. While he was waiting, he walked over to the bench, sitting and squinting up at the summer sun. He set his elbows into his thighs, looking around the field nostalgically. He let his senses spike, let his abilities rise like a wave while he coasted it, drinking in his surroundings like he was dehydrated and suffering.

He _missed_ this. He missed the field. He missed the grass, the patches of dirt, the scents of sweat and exertion and spilled sports drinks. He missed the roars of the crowd during a game, the way his heart would pound and his sweat would blind him but wouldn’t stop him. He missed his name, chanted in dozens of mouths. _JACK-SON, JACK-SON._

He missed knowing where he was going. He missed knowing that the ground was going to be there the next time he took a step. He missed feeling like anyone gave a damn about him. He missed not knowing the texture of blood between his fingers.

Jackson folded his hands over his mouth, his lips pressed into a grim line.

Just then, his phone chirped at him. Jackson pulled it out again, looking down to see that Danny had texted him back.

_Coach got hauled in for more questioning yesterday. Practice is postponed until he ‘finds the hero who burned his house down and shakes his hand’._

Jackson shook his head, snorting softly. Finstock was such a freak. He smiled. Yeah, he kinda missed that too. Giving it all up as a lost cause, Jackson patted his thighs once and stood, stuffing his phone back in his pocket.

His hearing abruptly spiked without warning, deafening him and sending him to his knees. Jackson panicked, slapping his hands over his ears and trying to muffle the noise that stabbed through his ear drums.

All it did was bring him clarity. 

“ _And what do we have here, huh?_ ” There was a sloshing noise, like water. Hearts raced—fear, aggression. There was laughing, multiple voices. Males, teenagers. He knew those voices. He knew those laughs.

There was a rasping gasp of a breath, and then a familiar voice was gasping, “ _No no no no, man, come on, no_ -”

Before he could think better of it, Jackson was launching himself to his feet and sprinting to the voices, not a single thought in his head.

Seconds later, he was bursting through the locker room doors, skidding to a stop right in the doorway. Rodriguez was standing in the middle of the room between two rows of lockers. So was Brian Taylor, Cody Masters, and Greenberg.

So was Stiles Stilinski, but he wasn’t standing.

They looked like they were trying to dunk Stiles’ head in a bucket, but Stiles was making it hard for them. It had taken all four of them to pick Stiles up off the ground and restrain him horizontally. As Jackson watched, Greenberg got kicked in the chest and had to retreat, leaving Rodriguez and Brian to compensate for him, trying to hold Stiles’ flailing body. From where it was tucked under Cody’s arm, Stiles’ face was so red, it was almost purple. 

“ _What the fuck are you doing?_ ”

Everyone froze, even Stiles.

After a bit, Cody smiled, sweat sliding down his face. “Showing our favorite resident narc how things work around here!”

“What the hell are you even- He’s not a narc.” Stiles was too desperate for popularity to be a narc.

“Then he’s macking on your girlfriend,” Brian said impatiently. When Jackson stared at him incredulously, he said, “Why else is she not with you, huh?”

“She’s not with me because she’s in _Venice_ , numbnuts.” And then, unable to take it anymore, Jackson snapped, “Put him down now or I’m gonna start _swinging_.”

There was a confusion of surprise, misgivings, and inertia before they realized he was serious. Then Stiles unceremoniously deposited on the floor. He immediately crab walked away from them, eyes wide and fixated on the bucket. Jackson leaned forward slightly, realizing it was full of floor cleaner. Then he realized that this wasn’t a joke. 

Feeling shocky and cold and wanting to believe in a different explanation, Jackson turned to Rodriguez, usually the sanest one of the bunch. “Are you kidding me, man? You’re a senior now. What the hell is this?”

Rodriguez looked uncomfortable. “We weren’t going to do anything,” he said in an undertone..

It was then that Jackson noticed that everyone’s eyes kept flicking not to Stiles, but to Cody. Their expressions ranged from ashamed to confused—except for Cody’s. He looked stony, thwarted, and not happy about Jackson’s interruption.

Everything suddenly collapsed together in his mind, making perfect sense. 

Jackson was _livid._

Snarling, he kicked the bucket over, fisting a hand in Rodriguez and Brian’s shirts. He dragged them to Greenberg’s side of the room and pushed, making himself a physical barrier between the three stooges and their apparent ringleader. 

“You’re following his lead? Really?” Jackson hissed furiously. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Cody. “The guy who just got let out on bail? This is your role model.”

Brian blanched. “Bail?” he echoed. He edged around Jackson, glaring at Cody. “You told us that they dropped all the charges. That they made a mistake.”

Cody lifted his hands. “I can explain.”

“Great!” Jackson interrupted with venomous cheer, turning around. “Why don’t you tell them what else you’ve been up to? You know, _besides instigating assault._ ”

“Hey, you hit him too,” Cody bleated defensively, gesturing at Jackson.

“Yeah, I hit him because I’m an asshole. And so are you.” Jackson turned back on the other three. “What’s your excuse, _Greenberg_?” Jackson shoved him back once, hard. Greenberg didn’t resist, going with the motion. He stared at the floor with a bleak expression. 

Jackson rounded on Brian, grabbing him by his collar. “What’s your excuse, Taylor? This is the guy you want to be like? The guy who beat his sister up so bad, child services took her away?”

Brian looked crushed. He was the proud sponsor of a little brother, big brother program and wanted to be a teacher one day. He looked like he was having an existential crisis. Too little, too late. Disgusted, Jackson shoved him back.

Next to him, Rodriguez was rubbing his face. “Jackson, honest, we weren’t going to do anything. Really. We just wanted to scare him.”

“Yeah?” Jackson turned and pointed at Cody. “Does that look like the face of someone who knew that?”

As if to prove his point, Cody looked murderous and wasn’t quick enough to hide it.

“I mean… man, we weren’t actually-“ Greenberg was stuttering, paling. He spared a moment to look down at Stiles, who was gazing up at them from the floor with a neutral expression. “Oh God.”

Jackson suddenly found himself holding back Brian as he pushed forward. “You said we were just going to scare him!” he shouted at Cody. “You didn’t say we were going to hurt him.”

Cody made a face. “Don’t be such a baby. I didn’t make you guys do anything. I didn’t twist anyone’s arm-”

“I gotta get out of here,” Greenberg blurted out before abruptly turning on his heel and fleeing. After an awkward pause, the other two followed, barely sparing anyone a second glance.

That left three of them—Cody, Jackson, and Stiles.

Stiles was quiet. His color was almost back to normal, but he had a tired look on his face. He pulled himself up on a bench, gaze swinging warily from Jackson to Cody and back to Jackson again.

Cody rubbed the back of his head irritably before laughing softly. There was something menacing in the sound to Jackson, even now. Jackson’s hackles rose. Then Cody approached him, smiling faintly. 

He stopped about a foot from Jackson, hands swinging out to take Jackson’s shoulders. “You’re my friend, Jackson, so you get a warning.” All hint of friendliness disappeared as he dug his fingers into Jackson’s skin. “Get. The. _Fuck_. Off. My. Back.”

In the past, this kind of display might have cowed him, but, then again, in the past, he would have been holding Stiles’ legs, not trying to keep his friends and teammates from making the worst decision of their lives.

Smirking slightly, Jackson raised one eyebrow and shoved Cody’s hands off him, forcing the issue when Cody tried to dig in. He shrugged his shoulders, readjusting his jacket and dusting off where Cody had touched. He sniffed once, planning to step around Cody, and then stopped in his tracks. He sniffed again, suspicious.

“Why do I smell gasoline on you?” Jackson asked, bewildered. It wasn’t a little gas—it was a lot. It was new, old, saturated, on the surface. He smelled like he worked at a gas station, or at least rolled around the ground outside of one at least twice a da.

It was a random question, but it strangely had Cody paling rapidly and then looking at Stiles. Stiles blinked back at him in confusion.

Jackson had a feeling he was missing something here, and the only comfort was that Stiles was missing it too.

-

The sound of the slammed door echoed through the locker room. 

Now that Cody was gone, Stiles took several deep breaths, no longer fighting it, clapping his hands over his shaking knees as he tried to convince his body to come out of fight or flight mode.

A few hours after his abrupt awakening right in the middle of an investigation and his subsequent escape back into his room, he got a text from Finstock. He wanted to see Stiles in the locker room ASAP. Stiles had figured he was let out of questioning early and was hoping that Coach wanted to talk about getting him back in the game. He knew that it was just as likely that Finstock wanted to complain about his dad, but Stiles didn’t mind. He was used to it.

He should have paid attention to Lady. Lady was acting weird that morning, restless. Right before he got in the car, she let out a confused, warbling howl and ran full speed into his thigh, knocking him to the ground before biting at his shirt, catching skin. He tried to talk to her, but she seemed as confused as he was, eyes flickering between blue and white. 

But her gaze wasn’t the solid glowing white of her death omen-y warnings, so he decided to ignore it. He couldn’t stop his life every time his ghost dog got a hair up her butt, after all. So he scolded her for running him over and nipping him, and closed the door on her when she tried to climb into the car. She jumped in anyway—selective intangibility and all—but she seemed upset and spent the rest of the time complaining in a voice that was half-bark, half-whine.

She’d calmed down considerably by the time they reached the school, eyes only occasionally flickering towards white. So, stupidly, he assumed he was away from whatever that was bothering her and he calmed down too.

He walked right into an ambush. The first thing he noticed was Cody Masters grinning at him, wiggling Finstock’s phone in his direction. Then he noticed the sucker punch to his stomach—though _noticed_ was a weak descriptor for the way he choked on air and curled up in on himself, trying not to puke. 

Then he was being dragged to the center of room by the back of his shirt, still on his knees and squinting up at his classmates. 

Cody had grinned down at him. “We gotta teach you a lesson about loyalty and solidarity, bro.” Then Stiles had been hauled up in the air. 

The rest was lost to Stiles under a haze of adrenaline and fear and one crystal clear thought that, of all the times he’d dodged severe injury from hunters and werewolves and kanimas, he was going to meet his end after a bunch of jumped up jocks operating under mob mentality dumped his head into a bucket full of corrosive chemicals.

Then Jackson flung himself through the door and _saved his life_. Like, really. Stiles was still trying to absorb the fact that, yeah, _that happened_. 

Stiles flipped over his arm, resting it on his thigh. Then, gently, he pinched the skin at the crook of it. Nope, not dreaming. Frowning to himself, he glanced over at Lady. She was sitting at the end of the row of lockers, panting slightly. Her gaze was entirely blue. She looked serene, no longer restless. The threat to Stiles’ life was gone.

Clenching his eyes shut, Stiles breathed deeply for a moment. Then, daringly, he glanced up very slightly. Jackson was looking down at him with a twisted expression. Then, visibly seizing up under Stiles’ gaze, he snorted before sharply turning away. 

“Don’t look at me. I’m just here to-” Jackson hesitated with the betraying pause of a lie. “-get something from Danny’s locker.” As if to give credence to the lie, he turned around and went to Danny’s locker, standing in front of it with his back to Stiles.

Stiles watched him disbelievingly. When he glanced back at Lady, she just cocked her head at him. Then, quietly, without humor, he huffed out a laugh. “Why do you hate me, man?” His voice sounded raw, rough. He ran a hand over his throat self-consciously, swallowing a few times. 

Jackson didn’t respond.

After a moment, Stiles nodded bitterly. He leaned over, hooking his thrown practice bag with his fingers and dragging it closer. Unable to resist picking at a scab, he muttered, “I mean, you’ve always hated me, but it seems really damn personal this summer.” Stiles dug through his bag and pulled out his water bottle. He took a long swig from it. Lady approached him cautiously, tail wagging. Stiles reached out to scratch her chin while Jackson wasn’t looking.

The thing is, Stiles wasn’t really expecting much from Jackson. Sometime back in fifth grade, after too many harsh words and tears, Stiles had put his foot down, deciding that Jackson wasn’t a human being—not really. Instead, he was some kind of twisted up goblin creature. There was no point in feeling bad about something a goblin told you.

Of course he was going to be mean—that was the only way he knew how to function. It was like expecting fire not to burn.

So Stiles was surprised when Jackson bumped his head against the locker once before sighing and turning around. Stiles snatched his hand to his chest, looking up at Jackson wide eyed.

But Jackson didn’t seem to notice, too deep in his own thoughts. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly, reluctantly. He looked drained. 

Stiles blinked at him. “The stitches on my forehead say otherwise, dude.” Lady leaned against his leg with a huff, as if saying _that’s right_. His hand twitched to her again, but he flattened it against his knee just in time. 

“I don’t-” Jackson abruptly stopped. His jaw worked, tensing and moving under his skin. When he spoke again, his words were clipped. “That day. It had nothing to do with you. Not really.”

“Right,” Stiles drawled flatly, letting his water bottle hang loosely between his fingers. It had nothing to do with him, huh? It wasn’t like it was his face or anything. 

He rolled his eyes. God. Jackson was such a dick. Shaking his head, Stiles started to stand.

Abruptly, Jackson slammed the flat of his hand against the locker behind him, startling Stiles into sitting back down again.

“Man, did everyone just _forget_ I was the kanima?” Jackson blurted out in a rush, looking pissed. “Everyone just expects me to shrug it off and go on with life, but…” To Stiles’ horror, his voice broke. “But I _can’t_.” 

Stiles went very still. Jackson’s eyes were their normal shade of blue—no hint of werewolf-y traits anywhere. But he looked sad and tortured and _alone_ and...

“Jackson,” Stiles said very quietly, but he had no idea what else to say.

“I, you…” Jackson bit down on the inside of his cheek and then stammered, “Okay, it had a little to do with you, right? But not- me. It was me. _I_ was a monster. _I_ was the bad guy!” He swallowed harshly, then bit out, “I was… _attacking_ people, Stiles. The swim team, Allison, McCall’s mom, Derek, and you…” He made a sharp gesture at Stiles, expression briefly hateful. “ _You._ ” He spat out the pronoun like it was a curse. “You, you- you kept up your grades and won the game and figured everything out when I was still convinced it was a dream. You _saved_ people from me. You were a goddamn hero.”

Stiles pulled back slightly, floored. That wasn’t exactly how he remembered the last term, but Jackson was too worked up for him to want to correct those gross misconceptions. “Jackson?” A quelling hand slightly raised, Stiles stood from the bench, but Jackson didn’t seem to hear him.

“I wanted to be _you_ ,” Jackson said with a detached sort of horror. He made a face and gestured at Stiles’ everything. “But not you you, because you’re poor and stupid looking and don’t get me started on that car…”

“I get your point,” Stiles said flatly. He rubbed his hands through his hair before saying, “I also think you’re a dumbass.”

Jackson’s gaze snapped to him. For the first time since he had burst into the room, one hundred percent of his focus was on Stiles—and he was _pissed_. Hurt too. “Excuse you? I’m pouring my heart out to you and you-”

“Shut up. Let me talk for once,” Stiles said impatiently, closing the distance between them by one step. “Lay blame where blame is due, okay?” He gestured at Jackson. “Sure, your angsty back story and myriad of personal issues maybe created the kanima, but the kanima didn’t attack anyone until it was ordered to. It’s like guns.” Eyebrows raised, Stiles took another step towards him. “Kanima don’t kill people, Jackson. People kill people. Specifically, creepy stalker types and geriatric psychopaths-”

“Stiles-”

“ _It wasn’t you!_ ” Stiles shouted, wincing at the actual strain in his voice. After a beat, he said flippantly, “And look, I was at the wrong end of Matt and Gerard’s attention too, okay? So I’m gonna be super pissed if you try and take credit for what they did. Those two deserve all the negative karma. All of it. The only thing you did, personally, was make the incredibly bad life decision to become a werewolf.”

Jackson scowled at him. “That’s the _only_ good thing that came out of this.”

Stiles ignored him. “You had no idea that the kanima would pop up. And guess what? Neither did Derek. It was an accident. You weren’t the one at the wheel during all that.”

There was a pause. And then, face tight, Jackson muttered, “That’s not what you said before.”

“What did I say before?” 

Stiles barely got that out before Jackson was snapping, “That day, in the mall. You said _I_ was the one killed the mechanic.”

Stiles paused, drinking that in. “I’m also a dick, so there’s that.” When Jackson just stared at him, expression stony, he sucked in a huge breath before saying, “And I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t say it because it was the truth. I said it because it was a lie and I knew it would hurt you.”

Jackson seemed to both wilt and grow under that apology. He took a miniscule step back as his gaze jumped from Stiles’ eyes to his forehead. Stiles had forgotten the bandage today. His forehead was a mess of interesting colors and stitch work. It seemed to pain Jackson to look at it.

“I’m sorry for attacking you,” he said quietly, weight on each word. He was staring at the ground.

Although it was strange to hear Jackson apologize (monumental, even), Stiles just nodded once, accepting it without commentary. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he couldn’t stand the guilty look on Jackson’s face, he said, “I’m sorry for hitting you with my car. And kidnapping you. And putting Nair in your shampoo during freshman year-”

Jackson’s eyes snapped back to him and he hissed, venomously, “That was _you_ -”

“-after you trashcanned Scott- and, hey, you don’t get to be mad about that. It was righteous retaliation!”

The tension in the room suddenly broke.

Jackson snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, shooting Stiles a condescending look. “It was _tradition_.” And you’re a baby for complaining, he didn’t say.

“Bullshit and bullying, is what it is,” Stiles said with heat. Jackson was their fellow freshman. He should have been working strategy with them instead of cozying up to the upperclassmen and pointing out which of his classmates would be the easiest to catch.

After a beat, Jackson’s mouth closed. He visibly deflated, his arms dropping from their defensive position. Then he nodded, not quite contrite but getting there. 

They stared at each other for a while. Then, awkwardly, Stiles made a slight hand gesture towards the door. “Well, this has been… novel, but I gotta go.” 

That, at least, was true. Lady was getting antsy in that ‘there are things outside that I must pounce’ way. The last time Stiles ignored that, he found her an hour later tumbling around in his attic and wearing the remains of a fifties era dress.

Jackson blinked rapidly for a moment, then nodded, backing up a step. “Okay.” He turned to leave.

Stiles picked up his bag, half of his attention on Jackson’s retreating back. He still seemed uneasy and unhappy with himself, and why wouldn’t he? He still thought he was a monster. Reminding him that he was a bully too didn’t help. 

Stiles froze, hand half curled around his bag’s strap. Then he abruptly stood up. “Jackson!”

He paused by the door, glancing over his shoulder. “What.”

Stiles waffled for a moment, not sure what to say. Then, finally, he settled on a simple, “Thanks.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed at him, like he was expecting to be a punch line of a joke. “For what?” he snapped.

Stiles stared at him for a long moment before looking back down at Lady, piecing things together. He had wondered what had made her so off that morning. Now he knew. Her flickering back and forth between warning and no warning wasn’t a glitch in the death omen system. Instead, it was a reflection of free will.

It wasn’t inevitable that Jackson would save him. It wasn’t fate or destiny either. It was _choice_.

Humbled by that, Stiles looked back at Jackson. Then he smiled. “For being a hero.”

-

Scott shifted uncomfortably where he was crouching, wincing at the twinge in his thigh. It was in the middle of the afternoon. He’d hauled ass here after summer school—right here, in fact. Behind this very bush.

This was not how he wanted to spend this hot, summery day, but he felt like he needed to. Someone needed to. So he stretched his leg as much as he could without standing, without revealing himself, but otherwise stayed still, stayed _watchful_.

He was so focused on the window in front of him that he didn’t notice the person behind him until it was too late. 

Two hands clapped down on his shoulders hard.

“Jesus-” he yelped quietly, flailing as he was crowded in the bush. The hands had claws and a werewolf attached, but not the werewolf he was expecting.

“You know what would go great with all this stalking?” Isaac asked cheerfully, crouching behind him. He was so tall, he actually created shade. “A cheeseburger.”

“I’m- I’m not stalking her,” he blurted out defensively, twisting his head around to look at Isaac.

Isaac was still wearing the clothes he’d worn to class, still smelling of that little mishap with the Bunsen burner. His backpack hung off one shoulder. He must have followed Scott here on foot.

Isaac’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Spoken like a true stalker.” Like he was one to talk. Ignoring Scott’s judgmental stare, Isaac stretched up slightly, peeking through the window. “She’s cute, but definitely not into boys like you.” He was smirking.

Scott shrugged off Isaac’s grip, mortified and freaking out because Isaac wasn’t even _bothering_ to keep his voice down. “Oh my God, why are you doing this?” 

They were going to get caught. How was he going to explain this to the cops? His mom? _Dr. Winfield?_

Isaac lowered himself back down on his heels, staring at Scott flatly. “You promised to go over our quizzes together before the cumulative test next week,” he said ruthlessly. “Not only have you failed to deliver on said promise, you blew me off to commit a felony. For shame, Scott.” He stood suddenly, sticking his hands in his pockets. He nudged Scott’s thigh with his toe. “So come on. I’ll forgive you if you climb out of this bush, buy me a cheeseburger, and help me ace this test.”

Now Isaac was standing directly in line with the window. “You just- stop.” Panicking, Scott pulled on Isaac’s pant leg, but Isaac merely gazed down at him, one eyebrow winging upward. “I can’t _leave_.”

Isaac stared at him for a long moment before nodding once, plopping down on the ground. “Fine.” He pulled his back pack in front of him, unzipping it loudly. “We’ll study here.”

This was hardly an improvement. Scott grabbed Isaac’s wrist. “ _You can’t do that._ ”

Isaac glanced up, expression stony. “Yes I can. I can and will make you recite all the differences between alkali metals and noble gases in this bush.”He cracked open his spiral on his knee and glared up at Scott challengingly. 

As far as threats went, this was one of Isaac’s most effective ones. Scott caved. 

“I- fine, okay, okay.” 

Scott pushed both hands against Isaac’s chest, making him move back. He peered around for witnesses as Isaac’s repacked his bag. Then, together, they stood, keeping just out of the window. Then, after making sure no one was watching, they hurried out of the bushes and back on the street. Not wanting to linger, Scott took off at a brisk pace in the direction of his mom’s car, forcing Isaac to quicken his strides to keep up.

“So. What’s up?” Isaac asked. “I mean, I’m assuming you have a good reason for peeping through somebody’s windows.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Scott walked faster. 

“Really? I thought we were friends.” Isaac hopped forward a few steps and anchored Scott down with a heavy arm over his shoulders. His tone was playful. “I mean, I’m an asshole and you’re a Boy Scout who’s going to buy me a cheeseburger, but there’s no reason why we can’t get along.” When Scott just snorted, Isaac paused, his tense body language betraying his hesitance, his sudden doubt. Soberly, cautiously, he asked, “You practically told me your whole life story in triplicate. Why play this one close to chest?

Scott flushed at that. He wasn’t- he wasn’t a narcissist or anything. He just wasn’t used to sharing stories with people. With Stiles, he assumed Stiles knew everything already—which he did—so he didn’t have to say much. With Isaac, he was always forgetting which stories he had and hadn’t told him, which inside jokes were busted open and which were still secret.

God, Scott missed Stiles.

Scott frowned at that thought, thinking of all the reasons why it was better that they went their separate ways. He stopped abruptly and swung his gaze back, looking at the house at the end of the street.

Isaac stopped walking too, arm sliding off Scott’s shoulders as he followed his gaze. “What is it?”

Scott hesitated, but Isaac was right. They were friends now. “Have you ever felt personally responsible for someone’s continued existence?”

Isaac crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. “Responsible how?”

Scott shifted uncomfortably, trying to talk about and around the real situation at hand. “Like… if you don’t keep an eye out for her, she’s going to get hurt or die.”

Isaac had the look of someone trying to logic his way through a game of charades. “So you know her.”

“Oh, not at all,” Scott said, shaking his head. 

Isaac nodded, frown deepening. “Then it’s your fault she’s in trouble.”

Scott made a face at that. “What? No. Absolutely not,” he said, offended.

“So she’s a stranger and your paths rarely cross,” Isaac summarized. He pointed at Scott. “And you’re not the reason she’s in trouble.” He looked at Scott for a moment before shaking his head. He started walking down the street again, hands deep in his pockets.

It was Scott’s turn to try and catch up with him. “Yeah. Yeah, basically. What, why are you making that face?”

Isaac rolled his eyes at him. “I’m making this face because it’s not your problem. She dies or she doesn’t die. Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s your answer. Really?” Scott was disappointed.

“I was the youngest child of an abusive, grieving father,” Isaac said with exaggerated detachment. “It’s not in my nature to care about other people.”

Scott considered leaving that alone. And then- “You care about me.” Then he looked over at Isaac.

Isaac didn’t disagree. “You’re different.” After a beat, he looked back at Scott.

Scott frowned at him, not understanding. “How?”

There was a long pause. Then- “I’m not sure,” Isaac said slowly. “I can’t put my finger on it.” Scott’s stomach grumbled. 

They stopped again, inches from the car. Scott touched his stomach, trying to remember the last time he ate. 

A devious smile crept over Isaac’s face. “You know what would be really good right now?”

“What, a cheeseburger?” Scott replied sarcastically. 

“I was going to say tacos, but, sure, if you want to buy me a cheeseburger, knock yourself out.” Isaac pushed past him to get in the other side of the car. “Why are you so obsessed with cheeseburgers, man?” The passenger side door slammed shut.

Sighing deeply, Scott looked up to the sky and counted to ten. He was starting to see what Derek saw in Isaac.

But Isaac was right—in actions, not in reasoning. There was no point lingering here, not now. Scott would have to go back to Dr. Winfield’s house later, when he had a plan beyond ‘watch as a random stranger gets fed on by an invisible monster, and do nothing’.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're taking matters into our own hands. For better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: unhappy parent-child relations, verbal threats (some obvious, some not), etc.
> 
> There are 2-4 chapters left.

Yawning, Stiles let himself into the house. Lady bounded in past him, still unreasonably energetic. It was one in the afternoon and he was already exhausted. But he supposed that made sense. He just barely dodged a potential murder and/or maiming by a guy who was unreasonably obsessed with making him pay for being a snitch. And, after that harrowing adventure, he then spent a good amount of time in the preserve trying to wear out the omen of his impending doom.

So yeah. It made sense that he was exhausted.

A throat was cleared. “Hey, son.”

Hovering in the doorway, Stiles just blinked at his dad. He was sitting in the living room, TV off, a cup of coffee in his hands, and wearing civilian clothes. He looked tired and yet still somehow anticipatory, like he’d been waiting on Stiles to return.

That… did not bode well.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said slowly, trying to figure out how he was in trouble. He closed the door behind him and approached the couch. “I thought you had a shift today.”

His dad sighed. “Yeah, well… I decided to take one of those—what do you kids call it—mental health days.”

Slowly, Stiles sat on the arm of the opposite end of the couch. “Aren’t you the lead on that arson thing?”

“No, the fire investigator is the lead. We’re just assisting.”

Stiles tapped out a rhythm on his knees. “Ah.”

There was a long awkward pause.

Stiles scratched behind his ear, wincing. “So, um. How’s the alibi thing working out?”

His dad let out a huge sigh. “It checks out. Street cams put you together too. Derek knew about your… sleep situation, your nightmares. He said he was trying to help you get through it, just like you said he was…” He trailed off, seeming sad for some reason. Stiles tried not to read too much into that. “Anyway, the evidence we found matches your story for the night fires.”

Stiles nodded. Then he frowned. “There were day fires?”

Pale, tired eyes swung his way. “One. The Mahealanis. And Mr. Mahealani swears up and down you didn’t leave Scott’s side that day.”

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t know Danny’s dad even knew what he looked like. 

The sheriff rubbed his face. “It’s just… odd. You’re popping up everywhere on this case.”

“I know,” Stiles said quietly. It was bugging him. More than bugging him—it was hounding him. He felt hunted, cornered, _watched_. And he had no one in his court, defending him, but himself. Stiles may not have liked being a dude in distress, but he always appreciated back up.

The sheriff nodded, but in a way that suggested that he was only partially listening. “You were the only common link between all the fires. Now, I find out that your homework is being used as arson fuel while you’re hanging out with a victim of the biggest arson case since-“ 

It was too much, too soon. Stiles _snapped._ “Arson, arson, everywhere,” he spat, whirling on his dad. “I must be the bad guy, huh? Wow, great detective work, Dad! Might as well slap on those hand cuffs.” Stiles stuck his wrists out.

His dad’s eyes were wide. “Stiles-“

Stiles shoved himself up, standing and vibrating in place. “It’s fine, I get it,” he said, chuckling venomously. “Clearly I’m the only suspect. Clearly I’m the only asshole in town who’d want to hurt people. Clearly I’m a-”

“ _I’m sorry!_ ” 

Wide eyed and shaking, Stiles stared down at his dad, the sudden shout still echoing in his ears. Startled and speechless for it, he sat down heavily, ass meeting cushion this time. After a beat, he glanced sideways at his dad.

He looked back at Stiles with a twisted, contrite expression before rubbing a hand through his hair. “Derek ripped me a new one when I talked to him, _and he was right_ ,” he said, voice quieter. “We barely had anything to tie you to that site and everyone in town knows how much kids play in the woods. Even if it was your homework, we shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. We shouldn’t have put that kind of stress on you.” And then, gentler, he said, “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. Then, unthawing, Stiles broke. “I’m sorry too. For yelling,” Stiles said, his voice small.

“Apology accepted.” After a beat, his dad smiled at him. Reflexively, Stiles smiled back. 

He didn’t feel relieved, off the hook, or even really forgiven, though. Deputy Boyd’s words had burrowed into him, like a tick he couldn’t dig out, but couldn’t stop scratching. He couldn’t help but wonder how much of his dad’s eagerness to drop Stiles from the suspect pool was his huge blind spot for Stiles and how much of that was general police work.

“You had to follow your leads. I get it,” Stiles said at length, his voice hoarse. He fidgeted, picking at his nails. “I’m sorry I make you look bad in front of your department.”

His dad did a double take and abruptly looked aghast. “You don’t-”

“I really do,” Stiles said forcefully.

His dad’s eyebrows knitted together, wrinkling his forehead. Then, clearing his throat, he said sadly, “I regret that I’ve made you feel that way.”

They stared at each other unhappily across the living room couch.

-

Lydia waited in the hallway, rubbing a hand over her arm distractedly. It was nine in the morning and she was unreasonably exhausted. When the room service cart finally rolled her way, right on schedule, she stepped in front of it with a winning smile. 

“508?” she asked sweetly. The man nodded wordlessly, eyes narrowing at her slightly. “ _Excellent._ ”

Once she’d checked it over to make sure it was everything she ordered, she gingerly placed an envelope on the cart between two covered plates and tipped the hotel worker before shifting out of the way. She watched him roll it the rest of the way down the hallway. Then, just as it paused in front of the room, she ducked back into her own, letting out a deep sigh as she did so. 

Twenty minutes later, there was a sharp rap on her closed door. She looked up from where she was slipping on her shoes. That was fast. She finished and then popped up, striding over to answer it.

She flung it open. She gazed at her guest imperiously for a moment before lifting one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Jeff stood there warily, hands in his pockets. “Interesting apology,” he said mildly.

Lydia leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest. “Was it?”

“Yes.” Jeff shrugged with a studied air of nonchalance. “I mean, I’m still paying for it, so I suppose it doesn’t mean much that you ordered Natalie and I breakfast.”

“It’s a little difficult,” Lydia said sweetly, “to pay for something when someone stole all your money and credit cards.” She paused, then said, “Natalie sent you over here, huh.”

Jeff nodded, glancing down the hallway. “She’s convinced it’s a nice gesture. I, on the other hand, think you’re up to something.” His eyes flicked back to her meaningfully.

Lydia snorted. When he just stood there, staring her down like that was enough to get her to spill her darkest secrets, she tipped her head to the side, leaning towards him slightly.

“Are those two things mutually exclusive?” she said in a stage-whisper.

Jeff’s mouth betrayed him, quirking into a smile. “Not necessarily,” he allowed.

Lydia smiled too then. It wasn’t as faked as she wanted, in hindsight. She sighed, shaking her head. “Look, I just want to get home. And I realize the only way to do that is to…. play nice. So to speak.” 

Jeff stared at her for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” he accepted. “Do you want to eat breakfast with us?”

“Hell no.”

Jeff nodded again, like he expected that. “Would you like to come with us to an art museum at noon?” 

Lydia cocked her head, as if considering it. “Sure,” she allowed.

“Okay.” 

“Great.” Lydia smiled tightly. “Bye.” She closed the door on him.

-

Derek was exhausted. He’d had about three hours of uninterrupted sleep in the last three days, and it showed. He pulled to a stop in front of the diner and took a private moment with his steering wheel, just breathing. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he reached over and snatched up a manila folder from his passenger seat and got up and out of the car. 

He walked into the diner, blinking back the blinding reflection of the late afternoon sun on so much glass. Despite the fact that it was approaching dinner time, the diner was practically empty. Cooks worked in the back, clashing dishes, cooking, and cleaning, but the hostess was gone. A lone waitress peered out into the room from the kitchen, face etched with worry. When she saw Derek, she shrank back, disappearing.

Derek’s jaw tightened. He turned his attention to the few patrons inside. And there were only a few. Three, in fact.

A set of twins were sprawled out at a booth piled high with empty plates. They callously looked Derek up and down and dismissed him, glancing back.

Derek followed their gaze. Three booths away, Deucalion lounged, contemplatively swishing his coffee, dark sunglasses hiding most of his expression.

He stopped mid-swish and smiled. “Welcome, Derek,” he said, deep voice carrying. With his free hand, he gestured at the seat across from him idly like a king gestured over his land. “Please. Sit.”

-

All it took was one tiny submission for Jeff to start feeling overconfident again. One tiny apology, and, just like that, the relations between father and daughter shifted from overtly hostile to hesitatingly cordial. Later that day, Natalie could be seen looking between the two of them with the confusion of someone left behind at the starting line. What she didn’t understand was that her and her father spoke the same language and, although he had a hideous tendency of treating her like a trophy daughter and a status enhancer, he knew the way she thought. She knew the way he thought too. They were still circling each other like wolves, but now they were doing it politely. 

Jeff was still expecting her to take advantage of this somehow, and was prepared to keep taking away her things until she shaped up. He thought that, if he kept forcing her to do what he wanted, she would eventually give up and go the path of least resistance of conformity. It was a tactic he was very familiar with. However, what he didn’t understand was that the tactics that worked beautifully at work weren’t going to work on Lydia. She planned on educating him on that very thoroughly.

They all went to the art museum that day. The distraction of the baby mama drama had lasted, sadly, only that one night. Her father might not have been Parent of the Year, any year, but he enjoyed children. Knowing that there was one growing inside of his fiancée put him in a cheery mood.

This was actually bad. When Jeff was in a bad mood, he had tunnel vision. When Jeff was in a good mood, he was attentive, observant. And Lydia could think of a whole slew of things she’d prefer for him not to notice right now.

Before she had to engineer another distraction, though, his phone rang. He looked at the contact screen and, without looking at either of them, lifted a finger and said, “I have to take this.” Then he walked off, leaving them in front of the art museum.

They waited there, awkward and quiet, for ten minutes, looking anywhere but at each other. Lydia, still feeling some lingering guilt at having blown the baby secret, picked at her nail polish and conjugated verbs in her head.

It was up to Natalie to break that silence. “Was that purposeful, you think?” Natalie asked her, smoothing her hair over her ear. “You know, to give us some time alone?” 

Lydia glanced up, eyes catching on a familiar looking key card sticking out of Natalie’s purse. Biting down on her instinctive desire to comment on stupid tourists making things easy for pickpockets, she pressed her lips together and decided to step up the timeline.

“I think it’s more likely that he’s being inconsiderate.” With that, Lydia strode into the museum. Natalie’s sigh after her indicated that she agreed. Baby inspired good mood or not, Jeff was always going to put himself and his interests first.

Natalie probably knew that too.

Without Jeff, it was a relatively calm tour. Boring, even. They both talked around the elephant in the room as they moved from piece from piece. Natalie knew just enough about paintings and math in art to make it interesting. Jeff still wasn’t back from his phone call by the time they were outside again, blinking at the sun.

Natalie let her off early again, giving her a wad of cash for food and fare. She didn’t hide her irritation very well, but she tried for Lydia, jokingly saying something about stomping off after Lydia’s father ‘to give him what for’, which Lydia wasn’t opposed to. She just had different plans. 

Just as Lydia was leaving, she pretended to trip on her heels and fall on Natalie. In the confusion of Natalie trying to help her back on her feet, Lydia swiped her copy of Jeff’s hotel room key card, still hanging temptingly out of Natalie’s purse. She immediately tucked it up her sleeve, her heart racing. She was hitting the delicate parts of the whole operation and it could go bad at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, not sure what she was apologizing for.

Natalie chuckled warmly, smoothing down Lydia’s hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. It was an accident.” Her kindness about it made Lydia sort of wish that it was.

Right at that moment, Lydia remembered very keenly why she loved Natalie so much when she was a little girl. 

They parted ways—Natalie to Jeff, Lydia back to the hotel, stolen card in her sleeve. Mind twisting in guilt, Lydia spent the entire trip back rewinding back to that scene—to the fond look on Natalie’s face as she fixed Lydia’s hair.

She forced herself to let go of the memory as she walked through the hotel. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not this late in the game. So, stony faced, she opened up the door to room 508, glancing up and down the hallway before stepping into her father’s temporary domain. 

Not wasting any time, she immediately made for the safe and crouched in front of it, pulling out her compact from her bag. She’d sacrificed one the night before, grinding the powder up into fine dust. Using a makeup brush, she lightly dusted the number pad. When she was done, she saw that powder had caught onto four numbers.

Lydia smirked triumphantly, closing the compact with a snap. She knew from her own safe that this meant no repeated numbers. She also knew that the safe was programmable, which meant that the pass code had to be something significant to her father.

Lydia cleaned up all traces of the makeup from the front, but then hesitated, staring at the safe. Her fingers itched. She knew the four numbers of her father’s pass code. She just didn’t know their _order_. 

She chewed on her lip, torn. She had a very specific time line she had to follow, and she had already accelerated it once, thanks to her father’s lack of proper priorities. But the temptation to just get it all over with already was too much. Despite her better judgment, her fingers shot out, typing out a promising combination.

It was wrong.

Swearing wordlessly, she slammed her closed fist on the floor. Then, vibrating with tension, she popped   
up, leaving the room.

It was a good decision. Five minutes later, her door was being knocked on. She opened it, greeted by Natalie’s triumphant smile and her father’s sheepish frown. After a beat, Natalie looked at Jeff expectantly. Then, to Lydia’s surprise, Jeff apologized for ditching them at the museum.

“I haven’t been acting the best this trip to either of you,” Jeff admitted. “Let me make it up to you tonight. I’ll take you two where ever you want to go.” 

He seemed genuinely contrite, which was new. Maybe Natalie was a good influence on him after all.

Lydia leaned into Natalie companionably. “Have any ideas?” she murmured. When Natalie looked up at the ceiling briefly with a grin, Lydia slipped Jeff’s key card back into her purse. Her heart rattled in her chest like a caged bird beating its wings, but no one noticed.

“Oh,” Natalie said with a soft laugh. “I have a few ideas I know he’s going to hate…”

Jeff blanched.

-

Derek ran his knuckles across the inside of his palm. When Deucalion merely flipped his pen in his hand musingly, he did it again, restless. But he knew better than to press—not with the alpha in front of him, not with the two alpha twins seated three booths away, and not in a slowly crowding diner full of oblivious human dinner guests.

Deucalion and Derek were seated at opposite ends of a table. Between them was a pair of coffees, a lone piece of pie, and, most importantly, a piece of paper detailing a non-aggression pact. 

Far from an expert in these things, Derek had cribbed most of the language from some of the pacts left in his mother’s safety deposit box. Judging from the smile Deucalion wore when Derek read it to him, Derek had a feeling he was all too aware of that. 

What it boiled down to was this: Deucalion, alpha of the alpha pack, would not order or sanction aggression against Derek or anyone under his guardianship or protection. In return, no one in Derek’s pack or under Derek’s protection would commit acts of unprovoked aggression against the alpha pack.

There was a lot Deucalion could comment on, ranging from the omegas Derek claimed under his protection to the way Derek worded his own concessions. But Deucalion didn’t comment on any of these. He just made noises of agreement as Derek read them out loud and continued to play with the pen. He seemed distracted and worryingly _disinterested._

“Is there something wrong?” Derek asked finally, hackles rising.

“No, no. It’s fine. This is fine. As fine as a simple piece of paper could ever be.” Deucalion shifted in his seat, placing the pen against the table. Then he folded his hands together and leaned in. “Tell me, Derek. What is your opinion of the first of us?”

Derek frowned at the non-sequitur. “The first alphas?”

“Surely they didn’t spring out of the ether! What came before them?” Deucalion smiled very slightly, showing his canines. “What do you think of Lycaon?” 

Derek hesitated. He thought about the boxes in his warehouse, the ominous Warning of the Thirteen. He thought he dodged a bullet the other day when the alpha pack assumed he was bent out of shape because of a territory dispute. However, hearing that name pass Deucalion’s lips made him think that he hadn’t so much dodged it as he _delayed_ it, and that maybe the fallout would have been better in private. 

Derek dug his nails into his palms, aware that he was starting to sweat. “Lycaon was a monster, a murderer, and a sadist,” he said flatly.

Deucalion barked out a laugh. “So. You’re of that school of thought, are you?”

“What other school of thought is there?”

“The one that says that Lycaon was a liberator.” Deucalion hummed softly, smile widening. “A creature, yes, but a pure one. With one bite, he could undo society’s false bonds of loyalty and servitude-“

“And replace them with his own,” Derek interrupted, not liking where this was going.

After a beat, Deucalion nodded. “You remind me much of your mother,” he said softly, voice tinged with nostalgia. 

“I was quoting her.”

Deucalion nodded, frowning briefly. “You do that a lot. You should take care. You know what they say about people who ride on the coattails of others.” Deucalion’s attention shifted away from him. He reached out, cutting out a piece of his pie with a spoon. “Have you ever heard the story of Lycaon and the Arcadian general? It’s an obscure one.”

Derek shook his head, mute. Try as he might to slow it, his heart was starting to race in his chest. 

Deucalion seemed fixated on the pie. “Many human armies came after Lycaon and they would eventually beat back him and his lycans into the forest. However, in the early days of the curse, there was just one army hunting him down. His own.” Deucalion systemically chopped up the rest of his pie slice with his spoon. “After he turned, his son took up the throne and his name so that no one would know of the curse. The first thing this wretched son did is to order his soldiers to kill his king father.” He lifted one piece up, seeming to examine it. “Of course, the beast was too far gone in instinct and rage to understand this betrayal, but what he did understand was _hunting_. And, specifically, being hunted. Like most of our kind, he did not like it.”

Derek hung on his every word, trying to parse out veiled messages and threats, but, so far, his mind was going around in circles.

Abruptly, Deucalion dropped the piece of pie back to the plate. “One night, he ordered his lycans in the forest and stole into town. He found the household of the general of the army and went inside, tracking each inhabitant’s movements down to the last mouse.” He lifted a finger with a strange smile. “He only bit one person, a small child, before leaving the household. Within an hour, the household was awash with blood and screams as the young child ripped through every adult he must have loved and felt loyal to. Then, finally, with the general dead at his feet, the boy lycan fled into the forest to serve his new king, his old king, his only king.”

Blood was rushing through Derek’s ears. How much did Deucalion know he knew? Did he know Derek had seen the box? That he knew what the symbol represented? That he’d been spending a good chunk of his summer trying to figure out what they were up to? 

Deucalion’s focus suddenly shifted to Derek. “What,” he said with great gravity, “do you think is the moral of the story, Derek?”

“Even a beast can set a trap?” Derek said flatly.

“Even a beast knows better than to let an enemy linger unhindered in its shadow,” Deucalion clarified with heat. “Even a _beast_ knows how to root out even his most persistent enemies.” Then, dropping the spoon, he murmured softly, “Why are there so many hunters at your door? And why on _earth_ did you include two of them under your protection?” 

Derek pulled back slightly. “It doesn’t matter.” He swallowed past the harshness in his throat. He thought briefly about the Argents—hard faced Chris and steely eyed Allison. He shook his head. “It’s irrelevant. You’re leaving town soon and they’re long gone.”

“Are they now?” Deucalion was smiling, but there was something hard about it now. “I. Don’t. Think. So.” He stared at Derek steadily, making Derek wonder how much he could see, how much he couldn’t, and how badly he had been injured to keep him, an alpha, from completely healing. In any case, Deucalion’s focus was unsettling.

Derek tipped his chin up slightly, readying himself. This was it. This was the breaking point. Deucalion wouldn’t agree to laying off the Argents—and why would he? Everyone and their werewolf grandmother knew was Gerard did to Deucalion back in the day. Derek had known this would be the sticking point, but he refused to budge on it. And now everyone else was going to suffer. 

Starting with Derek. He prepared himself, ready to endure, ready to hurt-

But, to Derek’s surprise, Deucalion ended his intense stare with a casual shrug, seemingly dismissing the harshly pressed point. Humming softly, the alpha of alphas slid his fingers across the paper, finding the end of the pact. He grabbed the pen, clicking the end of it.

He was going to sign it. He was actually going to agree. Derek was almost breathless with disbelief, almost lightheaded. Only one thought ran through his head.

There was absolutely no way a monumental win like this was this easy. 

Derek clapped a hand over the top of the pact. Something had to be wrong. Something had to be eluding him. He was making a _mistake_. 

But what was it?

Deucalion’s head lifted slightly, an eyebrow lifting behind mirror-like glasses. “Yes, Derek?” he said, pausing. 

“Don’t you want someone to read that for you before you sign?” Derek asked, stalling, trying to find the trap. “You can’t actually trust me.”

Deucalion smirked, setting his pen to paper. “No, I do not trust you. But what I do trust,” he said, signing with a flourish, “is that you are a very, very poor liar.” The curling signature rested two inches above the signature line—a pretty good guess for a blind man.

Three booths away, the twins stood up and approached their table. Derek leaned back, eyeing them warily. They didn’t spare him a glance, focused entirely on Deucalion. 

As for Deucalion, he was practically brimming with satisfaction and calculation. He stood with an exaggerated huff, readjusting his jacket and sliding out of the booth. The taller twin offered his arm. 

“I did enjoy our talk, Derek, even with our little disagreements and differing points of view.” Deucalion extended his cane, tapping the ground. “Others do not pay enough attention to the classics, I think.” He clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder, like they’d merely had a hearty debate on literature and politics. “They do so to their detriment, do you not agree?”

Deucalion didn’t wait for a reply. He squeezed Derek’s shoulder lightly, releasing him almost immediately. A twin on either side of him, he walked away, leaving Derek with a signed nonaggression pact, the check, a sick stomach, and a piece of pie diced into nine pieces. 

-

Lydia actually enjoyed herself a lot that night, and not just because Jeff was sighing and hating life. 

She _loved_ plays. Natalie had taken her to some of her first ones when she was little. Five year old Lydia had, very briefly, flirted with the idea of becoming some kind of actress/scientist/inventor when she grew up. If Hedy Lamarr could do it, so could she.

(That flirtation came to an abrupt end during a kindergarten performance in which she learned that there was a huge difference in performing in front of her class and performing in front of an auditorium full of strangers. To this day, she denied having stage fright, but she could see why someone might make that erroneous conclusion.)

Her enjoyment of the night fled in the middle of a spirited debate with Natalie in front of her room. Her father, with a heavy put upon sigh, presented her with her pilfered driver’s license, grudgingly praising her for her good behavior. 

For half a second, Lydia had honestly _forgot_ about how all this started. But, staring at the rectangle, Lydia was reminded of all the reasons why she shouldn’t get comfortable, why she shouldn’t enjoy this. A gilded cage is still a cage.

She decided to hasten the timeline again. Like it or not, she was going home within the next three days, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

After saying some half-hearted good-byes, Lydia went into her room and packed her bags. Once she was done, she went back down to the lobby, seeking out the clerk at the front desk. It was impossible to tell which one of the clerks Jeff had in his pocket, but there were three in total. 

The first clerk was female and very business-like. She didn’t joke around. She worked like a machine in the morning, seemingly impervious to sleepiness. She was impressive and professional, but unfortunately the exact sort of person Jeff would cozy up to. So she was out. 

The second clerk was male and very uptight. He worked in the afternoons and was easily overly stimulated and stressed, making poor choices as a result. She had watched him hand out an entire book of coupons to an irate customer, even though the book had to be worth five hundred dollars. If she was going to use him, she would need to save it for the last minute. 

The third clerk, the one present at the moment, was a man who was overly enamored with looking down her shirt. He worked nights and was easily bored and pliable and, well… overly enamored with looking down her shirt. Lydia was not above using that. 

So she went down to the lobby and greeted him. After some idle chit-chat, she asked him to look up flights for her again. She had originally made flight plans with him when she tried to leave a few days ago. She didn’t know how much the clerks knew about the real reason she was still around, so she played up having missed her flight because of an illness.

He seemed mildly intrigued when she asked him not to let her father know, but she made it seem like she still needed to convince her father of her good health. He made a note on a paper and told her he’d let her know as soon as possible when he had a flight for her. 

“The sooner the better,” she said, tipping him generously. 

She had a good stash of cash. She’d been given money to ‘go on and entertain herself’ early on in the trip, usually when her father was trying to juggle business and pleasure. She didn’t exactly pinch pennies then, but, after Jeff put her on lock down, she started hoarding as much as she could, walking where she could, skipping meals when she thought she could stand it. Then Natalie started giving her money too and she was way more generous. 

Right now, Lydia had a tidy little sum—not nearly enough to buy a ticket, but enough for her to smooth the way when asking for favors. But it was okay because everything was going according to plan. She’d have her credit and debit cards back once she opened the safe. Once she had access to her money again, everything would be smooth sailing.

Of course, it was then that she hit a small snag.

Someone knocked on her door. Lydia looked up from where she was lying on her stomach, scowling at a notepad. They knocked again and she shot up, panicking and looking at her incriminatingly packed bags, her empty closet. 

Biting her lip, Lydia walked over to the door, peering through the peephole. 

She sighed, relieved. It was just Natalie. She opened the door and walked away, letting her come through on her own steam.

“Hey, sweetie. I noticed you were kinda down at the end there and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” Lydia looked down at herself. She was wearing one of Jackson’s old shirts to bed. She tugged at it self-consciously, making sure there were no holes, before sitting down, pulling her notepad to her.

Natalie closed the door behind her, approaching Lydia’s bed with a cautious smile. “So. What are you up to?” She squinted down at Lydia’s work, like she thought that, if she frowned enough, she’d be able to figure out what kind of math Lydia had scrawled over the paper.

Lydia licked her lips, weighing the pros and cons of lying. The consensus was that she was just frustrated enough to not to care about the consequences.

She went for it and lifted the notepad. “These are the four digits to Dad’s safe,” she said finally. There were numbers written all over the first page of the notepad, different combinations of the same four numbers. “And therein lies the frustrating part,” she said to herself, eyes flicking from one number to the next. 

Lydia had exactly four chances to get the password right, or else she’d be locked out for twelve hours, and that was the kind of delay she couldn’t afford. Not to mention that her father would notice and, even if he was distracted, the hotel itself would get a signal, warning of a lock out. And then they, of course, would rush to tell her father and… ugh.

She’d started off with 10, 000 possible combinations, but had managed to narrow it down to a few dozen by knowing it was a four digit password with no repeated numbers, and by figuring out which buttons were being pushed. Now all she had to do was figure out what the hell was going through Jeff’s mind when he programmed the safe. 

There was a hitch of a betrayed breath above Lydia. She was so deep in thought, she almost blanked out Natalie’s entire presence. Then, indignantly, Natalie was saying, “Seriously, Lydia? This is the way you’re playing along.” She sounded angry.

Though slightly surprised by her reaction, Lydia just snorted contemptuously. “Did you really think I was going to play nice until my jailer gave me back all my things?”

“Why not?” Natalie demanded. “That’s the rules of the game you’re playing…“

Lydia looked up at her finally and snapped, “It’s not a game, it’s submission!”

Natalie had her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked furious. Hardly cowed by that, Lydia glared up at her, mentally preparing for any number of reactions she could have. 

But then Natalie did something Lydia didn’t expect—she _laughed_. It was soft and without much humor, but still unexpected. “Okay, wow,” she said, taking a step back. “I think you’re taking this a little too seriously…”

Lydia blinked rapidly, stung. Somehow, that hurt more than anything else she could have done. “Okay,” she murmured, slapping the notepad against the comforter. “Let me put it in a way _even you_ might understand.” She hitched herself to the end of the bed, kicking her feet sardonically before starting to spin her hypothetical situation. “Say he asked you to marry him, but you weren’t really in the mindset to deal with it. Maybe there were past issues. Unresolved ones. Maybe he sprung it on you in public so you’d be pressured not to make a scene.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “Lydia…”

“But you say no. You let him know your point of view. You know your own mind, right?” When Natalie didn’t answer, Lydia shot her a lethal glare. “ _Right?_ ”

Natalie closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

“No, you don’t.” Lydia smirked at Natalie’s cross expression. “At least, not according to _him_. So you make it explicit. You tell him your feelings, and that you plan on leaving,” Her smirk fell and then she was saying, bitterly, “Then you wake up the next morning, right? All your personal identification, gone. Your phone, gone. Your money, gone. To top it off, he’s chained you to the wall. Then he has the gall, the absolute _brass_ , to tell you that you’re staying with him until you change your answer to something he’s more comfortable with.” Lydia took in a much needed breath. “Wouldn’t that bother you? Wouldn’t that _piss you_ off? Wouldn’t that-“

“Okay!” Natalie interrupted, shouting. As soon as it passed her lips, she looked drained, tired. “When you put it like that…” She sighed, shaking her head. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, rubbing a hand over her face. “But I can’t condone this, Lydia.”

Lydia bristled at that. “Then don’t! Just let me what I’m going to do.”

Natalie dropped her hand, looking at Lydia through heavy lidded eyes. She looked defeated and sad. “So what _are_ you going to do?”

Lydia’s answer was immediate. “Lull him into a false sense of security, then disappear right under his nose.” She shot Natalie a tight lipped, triumphant smile.

Natalie’s eyebrows pinched together. “But why?”

“That’s what he did to me!” she snapped with venom. Then, hearing herself, she froze. 

That… that had nothing to do with the way he’d ruined this vacation. Right? She wasn’t-

_No._ This was not about how he’d left them all those years ago—suddenly, in the middle of the night, and with no word. _No._ This was about… the now. This was about false imprisonment and lying pretenses and- 

She was flipping the game around on him, that was all. This was his just desserts. He deserved this. So maybe now there was less disappearing and more false imprisoning on his end, but, you know… whatever. She worked with what she’d been given.

That. Was. All.

“God. _No,_ ” Natalie said with feeling, shaking Lydia out of her uncomfortable thoughts. “You know what you two need to do?” She didn’t give Lydia enough time to answer. “ _Talk._ Hash out your differences. Explain your feelings. This one-upmanship bullshit is awful—for you and your relationship.”

Lydia made a face. “One-upsman-“

Natalie made a sharp circular gesture at Lydia. “This whole thing? It happened because you hurt his feelings at the restaurant. Made him feel like he wasn’t in control, that the person he cares about the most in his entire freaking life was looking down at him and his choices. So he went around and did that to you, and now you’re going to do it to him, and then he’s going to do it to you, and it’s just this… ugly, vicious cycle _and I can’t take it_.”

“I’m not going to talk to him. Not now. Not with any degree of honesty.” 

Feeling like she was on shaky ground all of a sudden, Lydia took a moment, reminding herself of all the reasons why her father was in the wrong. There were many. Just because she was suddenly unsure of her motives didn’t mean he was suddenly right.

“There’s a power differential here. Do you know-” Lydia took in a shaky breath before continuing. “Do you know how hard it is for someone my age to be treated like a real person, only to have that taken away at a whim? Do you know what it feels like to be looked at and respected like an adult, only to be treated like a child the second I do something that doesn’t bolster his ego?” 

Natalie was looking at her with pity, pain, and sympathy, but Lydia didn’t want that. She wanted Natalie to understand where she was coming from, but she was afraid Natalie was focusing on the wrong thing—that Natalie, in her quest for father-daughter harmony, might ruin this entire thing for her.

Lydia should have never opened her mouth, but, damnit, she was-

She was _lonely._

Lydia made a dismissive gesture at Natalie, turning back to her notepad. “Tell him my plan if you want, but I’m still leaving. And the longer I stay here under his thumb, the less likely there will be a relationship for us to salvage at the end.”

“Lydia…”

“Just go. I have to figure this out.” Lydia grabbed the notepad, raising it like a shield. And then, speaking softly to herself, she said, “It’s not his address or any part of his social security number. It’s not any number on his passport or driver’s license. Not his birthday either.” She squinted at the numbrt. “Could it be sentiment? An anniversary or a phone number or….”

Natalie hadn’t left yet, hadn’t risen from her impromptu seat on Lydia’s bed. She was staring at the wall with a blank expression, mouth steadily pulling downward into a deeper and deeper frown. And then, seeming to come to a decision, she turned back to Lydia, pulling the top of notepad down and away from her face.

Warily, Lydia let her, assuming this was round two of her attempt to talk Lydia down. But it wasn’t, because all Natalie did was stretch her hand across the paper, her pointer finger tapping a number. 

“0591,” Lydia read out loud. After a beat, she looked up, scrutinizing Natalie’s sad expression.

“It’s sentiment,” Natalie revealed soberly. “It’s the anniversary of the day Jeff and I met.”

Lydia blinked rapidly. And then, abruptly, she said, “Thank you.” 

Natalie didn’t say anything. The revelation seemed to have taken a lot out of her.

Under Natalie’s watchful eye, Lydia made a harsh circle around the number, the ticket to her passport and way home.

-

“What in the world are you babbling on about?”

Isaac stared at Stiles, unimpressed. Stiles couldn’t blame him. He’d caught the guy after his class, a good hour after Finstock let them go from practice. After being informed by the school that he couldn’t just arbitrarily cancel practice, even if he was being investigated for a crime, Finstock had started it up again, much to the irritation of the team. Stiles himself been allowed to come on a probationary status, due to his injury. 

Stiles was really starting to hate that word.

Anyway, in his awesome attempt to prove that he was still front line material, he’d worked his ass off in practice. So Stiles was now a mess of grass stains and mud clumps. Dried sweat made his shirt tacky. If he smelled half as bad as he felt, he wouldn’t blame Isaac for looking at him like he was something that rose, sentient and moaning, straight out of the sewer system.

He’d backed Isaac into a corner too, pretending that he didn’t see Scott come out of the classroom behind him, stare at him for a moment, and then, radiating hurt, make his way to the parking lot. Alone.

Stiles sighed, starting again. “It’s a warning system. Look, if you see this-” Stiles lifted up his lacrosse helmet, but then paused, realizing that critical pieces of the explanation were missing. He was just not on the ball today. “Where do you live again?”

Isaac made a face. “What are you, the Census Bureau? Back up.” He tapped Stiles once with the palms of his hands, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to send Stiles back a few steps, struggling to catch his balance as Isaac walked off.

“Okay, maybe that’s too invasive,” Stiles said agreeably, hurrying after him. “Where do you frequent? Hang out? Pick meat out of your teeth? Groom your fur?”

He got a whole heaping load of silence from Isaac’s end, and not a lot of body language to read from. Isaac’s shoulders were hunched in slightly, but Stiles didn’t know if that his normal aversion to perfect posture, present embarrassment at being seen in public with Stiles, or a prelude to a vicious mauling.

Stiles followed him, mind whirling with possibilities. “How’d you get here? Do you use Derek’s car a lot?” Isaac’s jaw tightened slightly. “Okay, that works. Look, if you see this in the back seat of his car, then I’m in big trouble and I need you to rescue me.”

After the last attempt on his life, Stiles decided he was done. No more messing around. He may not have liked having to rely on someone else to save his skinny ass, but it was so, so much better than the alternative. And, really, although having a pet death omen was great—awesome even—he wasn’t the one who needed the warning of his impending doom, especially when he kept on misinterpreting it. No, someone else needed the warning, someone else needed to figure out ‘hey, Stiles is in trouble, let’s go save him.’

No one could see Lady like he could, but Lady and her selective intangibility could still be a powerful tool. She could extend the intangibility to any object she touched and was very easy to train. All he had to do was establish some kind of code with someone and train her a bit, then, next time Lady’s death spidey senses went off, she’d go and trip the code, effectively warning someone who could actually make a difference. Like Jackson.

Or Isaac. Stiles wasn’t picky.

Isaac seemed to consider Stiles’ words for a moment, frowning, and, when it finally sunk in, he stopped abruptly in the middle of that hallway. “What?”

Stiles blinked at him. “Should I start from the beginning? I can do that.” He clapped both hands on his helmet. “Okay, so, I’m working on an early warning system and I-”

Isaac was looking at him now, blue eyes piercing. “Why don’t you ask Scott to help?”

“Well, I’m currently not speaking to him, so, no.” Ignoring a twinge of discomfort, he tried to get the conversation back on track. “So the helmet-“

Isaac faced him now, crossing his arms over his chest. “So it doesn’t even matter to you that he’s upset right now.” He looked awfully judgy for a guy who tried to slip a girl a kanima roofie in the middle of class.

“We’re fighting so, no?” Isaac rolled his eyes, huffing out a huge sigh. Stiles pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing as he was suddenly clued in on Isaac’s aggressive body language. “Wait. Are you seriously taking his side on this?”

“I’m not taking sides, you’re just being unreasonable.”

“Oh, wow.” Stiles looked down at his shoes, suppressing his first couple of responses. When the bitterness subsided enough, he said, quietly, “Look, man. What happens between me and Scott is between me and Scott. It seems to me that you should butt out.”

Isaac’s eyebrows hitched up. “Well, it seems to me that you’re asking me for a favor right now, and I’m pretty sure I don’t owe any favors to a _dick_.”

Isaac had a bullheaded expression that Stiles recognized not from Isaac’s cruelty spree, but from Scott when he was digging his heels in, hard. And Scott was generally on the right side of things, when he decided to be stubborn—girls excluded. Much sense was lost there.

Stiles didn’t like feeling like he was on the wrong side. It irritated him.

But before he could tell Isaac to get off high horse, a throat was pointedly cleared. Then a voice rose behind them. 

“Simmer down, you two.” 

Both Stiles and Isaac flinched slightly at Derek’s approach, Stiles more wildly than Isaac. Derek came out of the shadows, hands in his jacket pockets, frowning at the both of them.

Isaac briefly glanced at Stiles and then, in an undertone, said, “I thought I was taking the bus.”

“Not today,” Derek said neutrally. He pulled his hand out of his pocket just long enough to toss Isaac some keys. He jerked his head to the parking lot. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped. He closed his eyes, remembering that he had sicced his dad and Deputy Itching-For-Blood Boyd on an unsuspecting Derek. 

This was it, the consequences of using an alpha werewolf for an alibi. The only thing mildly comforting about this was that Isaac was also unsettled, looking guilty for some reason.

But, after a beat, Isaac just nodded and turned to leave. For an awful second, Stiles thought that he was about to get body checked by a werewolf, but then Isaac hunched in on himself and squeezed around Stiles without touching him, barely even disturbing the air around him.

When Isaac was gone, Derek’s gaze slid to Stiles. Stiles stared back at him warily, but Derek looked more tired than wrathful and brooding, which was something Stiles didn’t expect from him. He also didn’t expect the words that came out of his mouth next.

“How are you sleeping?”

Stiles blinked rapidly at him, taking too long to process that. “Is that- is that seriously a thing you’re going to ask every time we meet up?” 

Derek lifted a shoulder. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, _creep_. Comment on the weather, maybe? Or the Mets’ last game? Don’t go asking me about my sleeping habits, god.” Stiles splayed his hand over his chest. “While I, at least, understand where you’re coming from, someone listening in won’t.”

Derek blinked at him. Then he looked away. “You have a point.”

Stiles looked at his profile, surprised to find himself suppressing not annoyance, but mirth and even affection. When the feeling passed, he muttered, “But I am sleeping better. Thanks. For your help with that.”

Derek nodded once, still not looking at him. “Did Scott tell you about the alpha pack?”

Stiles recoiled at the abrupt topic change, all warmth vanishing. “I- no.”

Derek rolled his eyes, closing them briefly. “Didn’t think so. Anyway, you can relax.” His gaze flicked back to Stiles again. “They’re not interested in us.” 

Stiles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “See, that? That worries me.”

“Why?”

“If they’re not interested in us, then what are they interested in?” 

Derek’s frown intensified. “They said they’re just resting up and trying to find a new place to go.”

“The Warning of the Thirteen, though. That means something, doesn’t it?” Stiles made a face, thinking quickly. “And it was on the box, so it referred whatever was _in_ the box, so I’m voting that we break into their place and open the box so we can we figure out what we’re-“

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted brusquely. When Stiles snapped his attention back to him, Derek’s eyes were very round, very earnest, and just a shade or two off being completely terrified. “Everyone is safe. I’d like to keep it that way.” His expression darkened. “And if you keep pressing about what’s in those boxes, they might decide your nosiness is an act of aggression. And if that happens, _everyone dies._ Are you that willing to kill everyone to assuage your curiosity?”

Stiles lifted his hands defensively at the sudden attack on his character “Yeesh, okay.” He looked away, glaring at the wall, irritated and upset because, this? Figuring out things? That was his specialty. And his gut was telling him that this was one thing that needed to be figured out, like, _yesterday._

Derek sighed, visibly relenting. “Also? You need to do something about Scott.”

Tension loosened in Stiles’ shoulders. He didn’t disagree. “I don’t even know where to _start_ with Scott.”

“I’d start with an apology.”

Stiles let out a betrayed noise, eyes swinging back to Derek. “You don’t even know what went down, and you’re still suggesting I apologize first?”

Derek lifted his eyebrows. “I bet you did _something_ wrong.”

“Oh! I see how it is. Scott’s your favorite, your heir apparent. And I’m just a squishy human. That’s real nice, Derek.”

Derek snorted. “Shut up,” he said, taking a single step back. “Come on. I’ll walk to you the parking lot.” Then, without thinking about it, it seemed, he reached out, palming the back of Stiles’ neck and steering him in the right direction. “So. How do you think you’re getting your sweaty lacrosse gear into a locked car?” He seemed amused more than anything else.

Derek let go of him almost immediately. Even so, Stiles needed to take a minute to reboot. It was the first physical contact he had in days. All he touched lately was Lady, and she had a way of draining the warm out of him, not giving it back.

Stiles shook his head, like he was trying to get water out of his ear, but quickly picked up the thread of the conversation.“It’s a system. Why doesn’t anyone believe in my systems?” Without thinking about it, he knocked his shoulder against Derek’s, like he’d do any friend who was backtalking him. When Stiles realized what he did, he froze. 

What. Derek started it. And the look Derek shot him was bewildered but not offended, which was… a start. If anything. 

They weren’t friends. But they weren’t enemies. At least, not right now.

Stiles hesitated, wanting to tell Derek he hadn’t hallucinated after all, and that his friendly, neighborhood dog was an omen of death. But, somehow, it was just easier to let him think that Stiles was unhinged for a while—was still unhinged, banking on violating laws of physics for a frankly much needed warning system.

Stiles didn’t know what that said about his life, but it was what it was.

They reached the front steps of the school, walking out into the blinding light of the sun. “So,” Derek said at length. “Alibis. For _arson_.” Then he shot Stiles an annoyed look.

Stiles made a face. “Oh! Yeah, about that…”

“Uh huh.” Derek’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, nothing friendly about the way he pulled Stiles to a stop to hiss in his ear, “If you _ever_ force me into another interrogation with a cop-“

“They’ll never find my body?” Stiles said dryly.

“They’ll never find _your car_.”

Stiles blanched at the threat, gaping after Derek as he walked away. With a slightly high pitched voice, he bleated, “ _Rude._ ”

-

Humming quietly, Lydia took the elevator up to her floor, bypassing her room for her father’s. She swiped the new key and opened it, immediately striding over to the safe.

A day and half had passed since she got Natalie’s passcode. Now was the time to put it to good use.

It had been relatively easy to get to this point. Emotionality could be a powerful tool, more powerful than many chose to believe. Lydia was very, very fond of reason and logic and neatness, but she also found that she could get a lot more from a pair of teary eyes, a disdainful eyebrow lift, or a genuine expression of anger. Using it, she managed to convince the uptight clerk that she lost her card and was having a nervous breakdown over it, and then proceeded to fluster him until he forgot she was actually in 509, not 508. 

The security in this place was seriously disappointing. 

Earlier that day, she spent a great deal of time with Jeff and Natalie at a private garden—the prized collection of a friend of a friend of client’s. Jeff was clearly trying to suck up to Natalie and Natalie was clearly trying to squeeze ten years of father-daughter bonding in a few days. It was a frustrating morning. The only thing Lydia successfully managed in the whole mess was to convince them to leave their cell phones at the hotel, claiming how better she felt now having removed by that shackle to technology. 

Jeff seemed ill at the prospect, but Natalie seemed enthused, which was the only reason why he grudgingly put it back in his room that morning. During the tour of the garden, he kept on patting his pocket, as if to reach for his phone, only to scowl when he remembered where it was at.

Lydia was very careful not to smirk where he could see it. 

Although he’d clearly planned this trip months in advance, her father seemed to range from ambivalent to actively offended by the environment, blinking like the bright colors were hateful. Such wishy washy feelings spiraled off into alarm when Natalie went on a cheerful rant about how many of common household plants could be used as poison. Lydia hadn’t forgotten that Natalie had studied botany before life circumstances and a job opportunity whisked her away, but Jeff apparently had.

“No wonder she doesn’t need a pre-nup,” Lydia sang softly to him, unable to help herself.

Jeff watched Natalie the rest of the trip with new alarm. 

Lydia claimed illness midway through lunch, but waved off their attempts to see her back to the hotel. It was a ten minute walk and she’d worn her sneakers for this purse. 

“I just need to lie down,” she said weakly, leaning into him when Jeff checked her temperature.

Across the table, Natalie’s eyes narrowed. She knew Lydia’s plan, but not her timeline, and was currently operating under a false optimism that she’d have time to fix what Jeff had broken. 

Lydia got to the hotel just in time to catch the end of the uptight clerk’s shift and to dump the entire contents of her purse on his counter, forcing him to deal with a deeply emotional teenager right before he had to clock out. 

She crouched in front of the safe, entering Natalie’s code. Have expecting Natalie to have told on her, she was pleasantly surprised when it worked, allowing her to open the safe. She dragged all of her things out of the safe in one scoop, shoving all of it into her purse. Then she paused, an idea burrowing under her skin.

Five minutes later, Natalie and Jeff’s cell phones, passports, and plane tickets were in the safe. She changed the passcode to the first four digit of pi. She was not one for sentiment.

An hour later found her in her room, checking her text messages and seething over the falsified and recent texts to her mother about how good she was doing. Then there was a knock on her door. 

Lydia froze. Then, panicking, she jumped off the bed. She kicked her purse under her bed and shoved her cell in her shirt. Then, on quick, silent feet, she went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. 

She was answering the door before the third knock finished.

“Hi,” Natalie said, eyebrows drawn together. “We just wanted to check on you.”

Jeff was antsy. “Can I use your bathroom?”

Before she could even answer, he was pushing past her, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

“Sure,” Lydia said belatedly, rolling her eyes. She wondered if he’d notice how all of her shampoo and makeup were gone, that her hair straightener and her blow dryer were absent. She wondered if he’d figure out why,

Lydia bit her lip, crossing her arms over her chest. This whole thing could come crashing down around her head at any moment and there was very little she could do to stop it. Her eyes shifted over to Natalie, aware she could ruin everything with a single word.

Natalie’s eyes were moving around the room. “Ready to go?” she asked, voice slightly dull.

After a beat, Lydia shot her a wide, unkind smile. “You bet.”

There was a long pause. Then Natalie sighed, pinched her nose. “I really wish you’d just talk to him.”

“I really wish I could be confident that he’d hear me.”

They didn’t get a chance to say anything else, because Jeff was coming out of the room, looking marginally calmer. He jerked his thumb to their shared wall. “Gotta go back to my room and get my cell.”

Lydia’s stomach dropped. This was it. This was how she was going to get caught. He was going to notice his phone was gone, then he was going to notice that his passport was missing, then he was going to notice that the safe wasn’t working and-

Lydia must have paled, because Natalie grabbed her arm briefly, eyes bright with concern. Then she pulled back, seeming to have an epiphany. A complicated range of emotions passed over her face, some reminding Lydia of anger, some reminding Lydia of pity. Then Natalie was schooling her expression, hiding it under a smile.

Natalie turned back to Jeff. “We’re going to be late for dinner,” she said, releasing Lydia.

“It’ll just take a second,” Jeff said, going for the door. 

Natalie blocked off access with her arm. “And if we’re a _second_ late, they’ll give the reservation to someone else. You know I’m right.”

There stared at each other for a long moment. Lydia’s heart was in her throat, because if Jeff’s cell phone addiction beat out his desire to make Natalie happy, she was screwed. She was so screwed. If she thought it was bad now, Jeff would make it worse because he was vindictive when he didn’t get his way. And he would make it worse. He’d make it unbearable. If what she had know was a gilded cage, then what he’d give her next was a prison cell with no windows and no door. 

Just as Lydia was starting to feel faint, Jeff snorted out a laugh, nodding. “Yes, you are,” he said, oblivious to Lydia’s panic. “See you tomorrow, Lydia.” He glanced at her, seeing her then for real, and paused. Then he patted her head. “Get some sleep. You look sick.”

Natalie and Jeff stepped out and into the hallway.

“Yeah, well, have fun!” Lydia said a tad shrilly before closing the door. She sagged against it, eyes clenched shut and willing herself to calm down. Then, a minute later, she opened it very quietly, poking her head out.

Jeff and Natalie were rounding the corner to the elevator, backs to her and arm in arm. 

God. That was so close. She sagged against the door and sucked in several deep breaths, eyes clenched shut.

She waited an extra thirty minutes before rushing out to meet the night clerk. He’d told her the morning before that he had ironed out the details of how she was going home, and that she had a flight that night, if she wanted it. When she came down, breathless and flushed, he wordlessly lifted it in her direction, attention fixated by the game playing on his phone.

She shuffled through the paperwork, her eyebrows steadily rising. She had planned on paying for everything with her own money, but everything had already been taken care of. The clerk had reserved a ticket for her as well as a car to get her there, and all of it had been added to Jeff’s room bill. Lydia’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she realized what that actually meant. 

The only reason the clerk could do such a thing is because Jeff had already approved that expenditure for the end of the month—which said a lot about Jeff’s expectations for her. He had forced her into this position, but he expected her not to follow the rules. He expected her not to submit and play nice.

Lydia didn’t know if she should laugh or scream in frustration.

She looked up at the clerk. Lydia wasn’t going to lie—she was kind of impressed with the guy. He might have been a creep, but he was an efficient creep. She left him with a gigantic tip, giving him most of the money she had left from her hoarding, and then went back upstairs, grabbing her things.

Forty minutes later, she was sharing the back seat of the car with three of her bags and checking out the details of her plane reservation on her phone. She had a flight to LAX that night. There were a few more layovers than she usually liked, but the immediacy of it more than made up for it.

Then it hit her like a small wave hits a beach goer, leaving her breathless and on her ass and excited. 

She was finally going home.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must come down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: assault, attempted assaults, injury, shock, bullying, panic attack, poor choices made by main characters, author doesn't know how molotov cocktails work.

Lydia was coming back early. Lydia was- 

She was coming _back_. And Jackson had no idea what to do. Ever since she left, he felt like his life was put on pause. Now that there was momentum in his life again, color and vibrancy where there was none, Jackson was…

Jackson was kind of scared, actually. 

What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to tell her about his summer? Was he supposed to admit that he sulked about lacrosse and skipped summer practice for all his other teams? Was he supposed to tell her that Derek had to constantly drag him back to his apartment to practice control and that his control was as shitty now as it was at the beginning of the summer? Was he supposed to tell her that he was on the verge of losing all his friends and that he’d slammed some guy’s head into a locker and barely dodged jail time?

Jackson wanted to see Lydia, craved her like a starving man craved food, but he was also dreading her return. Lydia always thought he could do more, do better, and Jackson was sick and tired of disappointing people. He was sick of disappointing _her._

Danny thought he was freaking out because he was unprepared. Lydia was supposed to come back to gifts and parties—that was the plan. That was the plan before the school year even ended. Danny booked a band and everything.

“But we can still make this work,” Danny said brightly. “We’ll throw together a little shindig now and have the real party later. All you have to do is buy her something, meet her at the airport, and take her out to dinner. I’ll handle the rest here.”

Danny dragged him to Hill Valley’s mall. Jackson resumed his mad pacing there, getting more and more anxious at the passing of each minute. Then he saw a lanky boy in plaid wandering around the shoe store.

To Danny’s horror, he ended up running Stiles down, ambushing him between a sandal display and an eerie, blank faced mannequin. 

After neutrally listening to Danny’s quick explanation, Stiles immediately invited himself into their group, declaring himself the world’s second leading expert on all things Lydia. Jackson couldn’t even disagree—wouldn’t, in fact. He was afraid of what might happen if he opened his mouth. 

When Danny retreated to the perfume section to go pick up Lydia’s favorite, Stiles pulled him behind a scarf rack. “What’s eating you? You look miserable.”

Yeah, well, Jackson _felt_ miserable, and the thought that even Stiles could see his unease was just… humiliating. “This summer has been- I’m not-“ He bit down on his lip hard, feeling his face flush. He could taste bile on the back of his throat.

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, expression blank, assessing. Then, abruptly, he said, “Did you know Scott almost maimed and/or killed me about five times in his first month of being a werewolf?”

“I- what?”

Stiles sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Jackson, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but….” He paused. Then he squared his shoulders and said, “You’re doing fine. Quit being so hard on yourself.”

Before Jackson could say anything to that, Danny was rounding the scarf rack, perfume in hand, and shooting the both of them a suspicious look—not the first or even third of many. Those narrow eyed looks started popping up around the time that Stiles’ reaction to the ambush was mild indifference rather than fear or anger. 

Stiles tried to salvage the situation by throwing three scarves on Jackson, pretending to see if they matched his skin tone. Danny didn’t buy it, but Jackson didn’t care. He just grabbed a scarf and charged to the front of the store.

The next twenty minutes went by in a whirlwind. Stiles disappeared. Items were bought and bagged. Danny detoured him to the jewelry store to buy a bracelet. More items were bought and bagged. Then Stiles was waving them down in front of the pretzel shop, face flushed.

“Here,” he said breathlessly. He flicked a thick magazine—no, a science journal—against Jackson’s chest. It had a rainbow of different post-it notes and tags sticking out of it and looked well picked through.  
Jackson took it automatically, not understanding why Stiles’ mouth pulled into a weak grin. 

“What is it?”

“Science,” Stiles said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Give it to Lydia. I marked every article she’s going to hate.”

Danny was staring at Stiles like he’d never seen him before, but, when he spoke, he directed it toward Jackson. “Yeah, she’ll love it. She gets super feisty in our AP class.”

Subdued, Jackson looked down at the journal. He understood now. Here was something Stiles worked on for hours on end, just for the slightest possibility that Lydia might talk to him about it. And here was Stiles, freely handing his ticket-in to his crush’s boyfriend.

Jackson didn’t know what to say. He tried to smile, aware that it came out a little plastic-y. He didn’t say thank you, mostly because he wasn’t sure how to say it, which was okay in the end, because he didn’t think Stiles knew how to take it either—not from him.

Stiles left, wandering back to the shoe store. He suddenly made an abrupt detour from his destination to a group of girls sipping on slushies. Jackson absently watched him go, eyebrows lifting when Stiles brazenly tapped one of the girls on her shoulder, eyebrows jumping even higher when the girl turned around, dropped her drink, and jumped on Stiles, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a giant hug. Her friends seemed as perturbed as Jackson was.

But when Jackson turned to commiserate with Danny, Danny wasn’t staring at Stiles like he’d grown two heads, no. He was staring at _Jackson_.

“What?” Jackson snapped defensively.

“That was so weird.” Danny jerked his thumb at Stiles. “I mean, didn’t you just attack that guy?”

Feeling self-conscious, Jackson lifted a shoulder. “We talked it out,” he said gruffly. “It’s fine.” He jerked up his bags slightly and stalked out of the mall and into the sun drenched concrete of the parking lot.

Danny followed him out. “You never talk anything out.”

Jackson came to an abrupt stop. “I’m trying to be a better person,” he bit out. “Can you help me out a little, or are you going to give me the third degree every time I do something good?”

“Of course not, but don’t kid yourself.” Danny’s tone hardened. “There’s a huge difference between being a normal human being and being a good person. Don’t give yourself a pat on the back when you think you’re the better one when you’re really just struggling to meet the baseline.”

Danny shoved the rest of the bags into Jackson’s chest and walked back into the mall. 

Jackson stood there stupidly, then shouted, “Where are you going? I’m your ride!”

\- 

The chairs were randomly occupied with other passengers at odd intervals. Some made loud phone calls, others tried to nap, and still others were playing games. 

Lydia stopped by a window, tiredly peering at the dismal looking airport outside. She was in the US now, but just barely. She raised an eyebrow at the barren expanse just outside, not terribly impressed. She pinched the bridge of her nose before abruptly spinning around, looking out over the rest of the area in front of the gate. 

When nothing interesting presented itself, she sighed heavily, leaning against the cool glass of the window. She had about another ten minutes left to her layover and she was restless—exhausted and energized, thrilled and depressed all at once. She wanted to be home already.

Lydia looked down at the phone clutched in her hand, eyeing it speculatively and running her contact list through her head. She already called Jackson to let him know she was coming back early, so he was out. Her mother was in Washington at a conference and was notoriously bad at remembering to keep her phone charged, so she was out too. Allison was knee deep in hunter training and was nowhere near available, and she didn’t know what she’d say to Stiles, even if he did pick up. She still wasn’t sure when she had saved Scott’s contact information either. She tapped her phone against her mouth.

“When are we going home, Daddy?” 

Lydia looked up, shaken out of her thoughts. There was a weary six year old girl in front of her with long wild red hair. She was currently stomping around in a tight circle, staring up at the ceiling with frustrated exhaustion. Her jacket dragged across the floor behind her. 

Her father kneeled down next to her, murmuring some calming, adult-toned gibberish, voice too low for Lydia to hear. The little girl responded by abruptly bursting into tears. In seconds, the tears graduated to wailing, and then her father was scooping her up into a hug. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but there was a gentle sort of patience on his face that made Lydia’s chest hurt, her mind spin off into rose-colored nostalgia. 

Lydia was jerked out of her inattention by her phone. It was ringing, vibrating and buzzing in her hand. Blinking and shaking her head slightly, she looked down at the contact screen and paused, taking a deep breath.

Then she lifted the phone to her ear, turning away from the other passengers. “Hello, who is this?” she chirped politely.

“Get back over here _now_.” Jeff was livid.

Lydia pursed her lips consideringly. “Hm, let me think about that. _No_.” She examined her nail polish.

“Lydia, if you don’t come back here right now, I’ll-“

“What, ground me?” She laughed bitterly. “That’s _adorable._ ” 

“I- you-“ There was a noise on the other end, like pure frustration given voice. Then he snapped, “You’re as difficult as your mother!” 

Lydia recoiled slightly at that—not at the comparison, but at the memories it dragged to the surface, those ugly days of the divorce. _Don’t be like your father,_ her mother scolded after a sarcastic quip from Lydia. _Don’t act like your mother,_ her father snapped after Lydia wouldn’t play along. 

She didn’t want to be like either of them, especially when they were being petty, feuding assholes, _like Jeff was being right now._

“As Mom or as you?” she challenged angrily, mouth twisting. “Because I’m pretty sure Mom never tried to trap me overseas while she made wedding plans with the pool boy.”

“I never trapped you over- really? The pool boy?”

Lydia ignored him. “You are a complete bastard,” she drawled, relishing the words—so long rehearsed in her head and now free to go about the world. “This is a pre-existing fact but this summer? You really hit that one out of the ballpark.” He tried to say something, but she talked over him loudly. “You crossed a line and it will be a very, very, very long time before I trust you again, if ever.” 

“Lydia, I can-“

“In fact, your chances don’t look good in that respect at all.”

“Lydia-”

“Shut up for once,” she snapped. And then there was silence. Lydia smiled, but there was no amusement, no true enjoyment in it. She turned around, prepared to succinctly and quietly devastate, forever severing the bonds between parent and child.

But then she froze, practiced words rattling in her throat but going nowhere. After a beat, her shoulders hunched up and she scowled at the floor.

Across the room, the red haired daughter was drowsing on her father’s shoulder as he stood, gently swaying back and forth. 

_Get out of my life_ , she thought bitterly. _Get out of my-_ She rubbed her wrist over the back of her eyes swiftly, angry at herself, angry at the way her gut was twisted up in ugly knots, angry that this wasn’t as simple as cutting off a cancerous limb. There was too much… feeling. Shared history. Shared _identity_. 

“Lydia?”

Lydia took in a deep breath, calming herself. “I’m not one of your employees, Dad,” she said steadily. “I’m not an object. I’m not a thing you can bend and break to your whim, and if you can’t see that? You need to get out of my life.”

Lydia looked up at the sound of announcements. They were boarding again. Thank god.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she said briskly, walking to her gate. “If this relationship is going to continue, it will be on my terms, not on yours.”

“Lydia-”

“That’s not up for discussion,” she interrupted, lifting a hand. “I cannot trust you anymore. That’s on you.” She stopped in front of the gate. “Call me when you’re ready to discuss my terms.” She hung up on him, boarding the plane.

The ball was in his court now. She didn’t want to deal with this anymore. 

For better or for worse, she was going to salvage what was left of her summer break.

-

Stiles came for shoes. Ten minutes in and out, he planned. What he got instead was heat, Jackson, an existential crisis, and Heather and her posse. One of these things was not like the others.

Anyway, shoes. He got back there eventually, swiping up the pair he’d almost decided on by the time Jackson, ashen faced and eerily blue eyed, grabbed his elbow and pulled him around. Almost three hours later, he was tripping his way to the cashier, dropping them on the counter. 

His toes wiggled in the ones he was wearing. He glanced down. The ones that he had on now were ancient, tight, and pinched his toes, the only pair he had left after Lady fretfully ate her way through his closet. When his dad saw him that morning, he flailed in disgust and practically ordered him to get new ones, throwing a pair of twenties at him.

Stiles decided that he needed to get out of town, so he went to Hill Valley’s mall instead one of the smaller stores in town. Jackson encounters and existential crises aside, it was a good decision for the both of them. Stiles got to see Heather—a once in a blue moon event—and Lady got to run around. 

Lady was having a _blast_. There were things to poke and shove off shelves and people to circle and bark at. There was _so much stimulation_. She was ridiculously pleased with it all. 

(It was a nice reprieve from their “let’s actually save Stiles” training, which mostly involved him running out in the middle of the crowded road with Isaac’s old jersey while she carried his lacrosse helmet in her mouth. He wanted her to associate Stiles’ near death experiences with Isaac’s scent, and then Isaac’s scent with Derek’s car, Derek’s car with a place to drop his lacrosse helmet, then, by the transitive property, Stiles’ near death experiences with dropping his lacrosse helmet in Derek’s car for Isaac to see.

By the end of it, she was angry and aggressively herding him places and warbling at him when he wasn’t perfectly careful. But she had also managed to put his lacrosse helmet in _Melissa’s_ car by the last round of training, so… Baby steps. They were getting there.)

So yeah. Lady needed the break and the excitement of new people and smells. But, no matter what she was doing, no matter how much fun she was having, she always came bounding after him where ever he went, even when he left the constant chill and moving air of the mall to the stale heated air of the parking lot. 

He made a loud noise of disgust to no one in particular when he was assaulted with the first wave of summer temperatures. That was it, it was official—this was the hottest day ever. It felt like he was walking through the moist, stale armpit of hell.

Making a face, Stiles quickly walked over to his Jeep, opening up the driver’s side door. He stood there for a moment, tossing the bag on his seat. Reopening the box in the bag, he took a picture of his new shoes, sending it along to his dad. Then he shoved the phone in his pocket and the bag into the passenger seat before climbing in himself. 

Lady jumped in the back of his Jeep through the side, making the car bounce when she suddenly materialized and became 110 pounds of solid ghost dog. She dragged his practice clothes to the corner before plopping down, looking up at Stiles expectantly in the rearview mirror.

“Driving Miss Daisy,” Stiles commented mildly, slipping on his seat belt. She barked, hopping on her front paws hard enough to shake the Jeep again. “Alright, already. Hold your horses, princess.” He stuck the keys in the ignition and turned.

After he got the engine running, the familiar muffled jingle of his phone greeted him. He pried it out of his pocket and answered. “Yo,” he drawled.

His dad was on the other end. “Nice shoes,” he said approvingly.

Stiles puffed out his chest slightly. “Half off too,” he bragged. He changed it to his other ear and looked out the back window to pull out, pinching the phone between his shoulder and his face. “How are you?”

Not good, apparently. His dad was being harassed by politicians and, judging by the strain in his voice, the harassment was more thorough than usual, thanks to the plethora of weird killings recently. He’d just finished with a meeting with a ton of them about the closing rate of his cases and was finally going out to lunch. 

“…and did you know Beacon County is the only county in California where the rate of violent crime is double that of property crime?” 

“Uh, _ouch_.”

His dad sighed. “Ouch is right. It doesn’t look good, kiddo.” 

Stiles made a face and rounded a row of parked cars, hands loose on the steering wheel. He could lose his job again. He could be investigated for misconduct. And- and it wasn’t even his _fault._

“They are aware you’re not Batman, right?” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

It worked. “I _wish_ I was Batman,” his dad said wryly.

“You and sixty billion other people.” Stiles slammed on his brakes as a Prius whipped through the parking lot, almost clipping his car. He flinched badly enough to drop the phone and he shouted, “Learn how to drive, moron!”

A moment later Stiles fished the phone off the seat. “Hello?”

His dad was very quiet for a moment. “Stiles. Are you driving right now?”

Stiles made a face. “Uh. Not technically?” He was in the parking lot. That didn’t count, right?

“Wow.” His dad didn’t even sound mad, just resigned. “You are so grounded right now. It’s a simple rule to follow and I-”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t spell out the terms of Stiles’ grounding. He didn’t even get to start his favorite lecture on driving while talking on the phone.

Weeks and months—even years—would pass before Stiles completely forgot what he heard on the other side of the phone call, before he forgot the way his dad trailed off mid-sentence, before he forgot the way his dad suddenly gasped, the noise almost drowned out by the sound of shattering glass and the whooshing sound that came only from fire exploding violently outward.

“Dad? _Dad_!” 

There was no response. 

-

Stiles drove back to Beacon Hills in a daze, bunched up and tight over the steering wheel as the speedometer read a near constant ten miles over the speed limit. Lady had her head hooked on his seat and was grumbling at him softly, eyes flickering between blue and white, but she might as well have been barking at a wall.

Stiles did the right thing before. He’d stopped and pulled over to the side of the road. When his dad didn’t answer him, he hung up and called 911, giving the dispatcher all the information he knew.

Then he had the worst panic attack he’d had in years.

She talked him through it, her voice a mixture of no-nonsense command and gentle empathy. Then, when his breathing was back to normal, she updated him on the business on the ground—his dad was found and was being transported to the hospital.

That was when he hung up and sped the rest of the way home. 

It was all sort of a haze from that point on. One minute, he was white knuckling his steering wheel, the next, he was charging through the ER, Lady skidding behind him on her claws. He didn’t remember if he’d parked or even turned off the engine.

Black was creeping through the edges of his vision. He felt faint, like he’d run a hundred suicides and had to run a hundred more. There was ringing in his ears, a shrill static that deafened him to damn near everything. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles turned, blinking as the haze cleared slightly. “Deputy Boyd?” he said faintly, almost to himself.

She was there and then she was coming to him, crossing the space between them in the quick confident way Stiles thought her son might have picked up, had he not been deep fried by an Argent and dumped into the woods to die. 

He met her halfway. “Was he shot? Was he stabbed? Was it a heart attack?” he demanded, firing out the questions in quick succession. “Did he fall? Was he in a car accident? Was he-” His stomach turned as he thought of things that bumped in the night. He pressed a hand to his mouth, swaying back a step. 

Startled by his aggressive approach, she hesitated too long. Something in him snapped and he bellowed, “ _Tell me!_ ”

The hallway went quiet for a moment. He was making a scene. The hallway was crowded and there were people around him—doctors, nurses, patients—and he didn’t care, because _none of them were his dad._

Deputy Boyd’s expression shifted to one of wincing sympathy. She lifted a hand between them, as if to touch him, to ground him, but the hand fell before contact could be made. She was sweaty and slightly flushed, clearly tired and strained from the events of the day so far. 

Then she spoke. “Someone,” she said very gently, “threw a firebomb at your father while he was getting lunch.” She swallowed once and shook her head. “It missed him, but hit the wall next to him, and when it exploded-”

Stiles made a hurt noise and staggered back a step, away from her. Darkness started creeping in around the edges of his vision again, faster this time.

“He hit the floor, head first,” she continued, handling him as carefully as a baby chick wrapped up in a blanket of broken glass. “He has a concussion and-”

No longer registering her presence, Stiles took another step back, world spinning crazily around him. His chest was tight and hurting, and he couldn’t—just couldn’t, for the life of him—suck in a single breath.

“He’s not-” Boyd’s mom stopped suddenly, eyes widening. She lurched forward unsteadily when Stiles’ back hit the wall and he slowly started sliding down. “Oh God. Stiles, breathe, kid. Breathe.” She bent at the waist, gripping his shoulders. She looked around, yelling for a nurse before turning back to Stiles. “It’s okay, I promise. _I promise._ ”

She tried to steady him, to touch him, but he blindly knocked her hands away, panicking. He hated this goddamn hospital. He hated it, he hated it, he hated it-

“Stiles!” His head shot up at the new voice. It was tied up with memories of praise and scolding and cheers at games and gentle care of injuries. Even through the mess of noise and feelings in his head, he knew that voice and trusted it instinctively. 

Stiles was on his knees, instinctively leaning towards her before Melissa had touched down. She caught him with a soft oof of effort, leaning back on her knees before steadying.

Stiles shuddered in her arms, comforted by the familiar smell. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, feeling like he was eight again, plastered out on the floor and terrorized because his mom was dead and she took his ability to breathe with her.

She taught him then as she did now, stroking his hair and bringing him back to a steady rhythm. The end result was him panting into her shoulder, chest hurting, but no longer on the verge of passing out.

He listened to her repeat everything Boyd’s mom told him, but he also didn’t listen, letting the familiar cadence of her voice soothe him. Then something clicked.

He leaned back slightly. “What?” His voice was hoarse, sounding like he’d scraped the inside of his throat with sandpaper.

“He’s fine,” she said again, and with feeling. She smiled at him. “Would I lie to you?”

Stiles took in a couple of breaths, then said, shakily, “You lied about Santa.”

Melissa laughed softly, gaze affectionate. “Stiles, everyone lies about Santa.”

Stiles blinked the wetness away from his eyes, mind reengaging and parsing through everything they both told him. “He has burns? A-and a concussion?” Just the idea of him having injuries had Stiles feeling breathless again.

Melissa headed him off by saying, “You can see him right now, if you want.” She stood, and then offered him a hand.

Stiles stared up at her for a moment, wanting to believe, and then looked up at Deputy Boyd for confirmation. She looked down at him awkwardly, but gave him a reassuring nod when he stared at her, petrified.

Stiles took Melissa’s hand and got up. She steadied him, guiding him deeper into the hospital. Stiles followed at a distance, trusting Melissa, but still half dreading what he would find. Deputy Boyd remained reassuringly in step with him, no matter how slow he went.

Melissa led him to his father’s room. Of all the horrible images Stiles’ traitor mind had conjured, he never thought of this one—his dad, seated but upright, bickering with the doctor shining a light in his eyes, more annoyed than anything else.

He was alive. More than that, he was okay. He was-

He was _hurt_. His shirt was off and his left arm was wrapped up like a mummy. There was significant redness to the left side of his face and a thick wad of bandages taped to his right temple. He looked like hell.

Stiles made an inarticulate noise of pain. 

His dad startled, turning to look at them. Then he deflated, grief passing over his face. “Oh God, Stiles. I didn’t want you to-”

Stiles shook his head once, hard, mouth pressed into a thin line. Trying on a weak smile, he teetered over to his dad’s bed, pulling up a chair and sitting in it. Then he abruptly buried his head into the surface next to him.

“Stiles…”

Dimly recognizing the concern, Stiles lifted a hand, fingers slightly curled in a gesture that signaled comprehension while also deterring follow up. Then he let the hand fall. The sheets smelled nothing like his dad, not like they did when his mom was near the end. That was… good.

His dad’s heavy hand settled on the back his neck. Stiles shuddered slightly, but welcomed it. It was real. 

“You’re so cold, son.”

Stiles nodded absently, abruptly exhausted. He felt so distant, so disconnected from it all. It was like he died and came back to life, like he was dunked under the ice of a frigid pond, and he was not entirely sure he’d reached the surface.

He kept waiting for relief, for the return to normalcy, but it was slow coming.

-

Scott propped up his chin on his palm, blinking slowly at the powerpoint in front of him. All of his chemistry notes were piled around the laptop in neat piles—and he had a lot. It almost crowded the entire kitchen tabletop, which was a testament to how seriously he was taking this class. He looked over the piles and thought about the notes he had left over from Harris—a whopping one and a half pieces of paper. He cringed.

Soon, though, he was glancing back at the computer screen, sighing heavily. He and Isaac were supposed to give a presentation on one of the concepts they learned that summer, and Isaac was late to their final editing session. They only had a few things left to finish so it wasn’t that big of a deal, but Scott found himself disappointed anyway.

He used to have a good GPA before he was bitten, not anything like Stiles’ or, god, Lydia’s, but a good one. So he was used to people knowing that. He was used to having other students in group work slack off, trusting him to pull through in the end. They took advantage of him for a number of reasons: because he was a goody-two shoe, because he was a good student, because he was a doormat. 

But this was Isaac. He thought they were friends. He thought they were-

Scott perked up at the sound of the front door opening, mood instantly lifting. Thirty seconds later, Isaac rounded the corner into the kitchen, looking at his phone with a wary expression.

“What gives, dude?” Scott said mildly. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

Isaac looked up, seeming incredibly uncomfortable. “Um. I’m not Stiles or the sheriff’s biggest fan, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be here.”

Scott leaned back. “Why not?” 

Isaac’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Well…”

-

Somewhere behind Stiles, Deputy Boyd cleared her throat. “Sheriff, now might be the best time for a statement.”

His dad apparently agreed because he started talking. Stiles drowsed, face still smashed into the mattress, focused, if on anything, then on the repetitive motion of the hand on his head. 

After the meeting from hell, his dad had been walking to the diner. He was planning on picking up the orders for him and his deputies—routine lunch behavior. He called Stiles and chatted with him about shoes and his job. Then he saw someone crouching by a car and reached for his gun. But, before he could announce his presence, the person panicked, popped up, and threw a firebomb in the sheriff’s direction.

Stiles blinked sleepily, his dad’s voice buzzing through him. “…silver lining of this is that I saw the little bastard… looks familiar, but I don’t have a name. He’s, um.” Stiles was jolted into a little more wakefulness when his dad suddenly patted the crown of his head. “He seems around Stiles’ age, but a little shorter than him. Stockier too. Broad across the shoulders. Dark hair, a little longer than what you’d think would be fashionable for a kid his age…” 

Stiles blinked steadily, lifting his head from the bed. When his dad noticed, he shifted his focus from his deputy to his son before smiling warmly. 

Stiles barely noticed. He was climbing slowly out of the haze. In his head, things were starting to click together, like a connection was being made, like a conclusion was being assembled, but there were no words or understanding to accompany it.

Deputy Boyd sucked in a breath before saying, quietly. “Sir, could you-”

Stiles couldn’t see what gestures she was making behind his back, but it made his dad put on his sheriff face. “Stiles, could you leave us for a moment?”

Stiles nodded wordlessly and got up, leaving the room. He noticed Melissa at the nurse’s station and hesitated, wanting to talk to her, wanting to hover at her and have her assure him that everything was okay. 

But his need to know outweighed his need for comfort. So, instead, Stiles lingered by his dad’s hospital room door, one ear turned towards the crack.

Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. Thanks to the constant din of voices and machines, he could barely pick up their conversation, even when standing right outside. Deputy Boyd spoke quickly. “…sounds like the Masters kid… possible RICO angle we’ve been working, but… the kid took a turn for the worse after being let out on bail… can’t find him anywhere…”

Words came back to him suddenly. 

“Masters,” he mumbled to himself, blindsided by the revelation. “ _Cody_ Masters.”

When everything clicked, he reeled back, slamming his elbow against the wall, drawing eyes. Melissa looked up from her files, frowning. Then she was rounding the nurse’s station, clearly coming for him.

Cody Masters. Threw a fire bomb. At his _dad._

Swaying slightly on his feet, Stiles turned on his heel and walked away, barely aware of Lady shadowing him, barely aware of Melissa calling after him, barely aware of _himself_.

All Stiles could hear from that point on was white noise, like his entire being had collapsed into a single point of burning clarity. 

-

Scott burst into the hospital at a quick jog. The nurse on duty barely acknowledged him, assuming he was there for his mom. In fact, just about everyone ignored him, which meant that no one was watching him miraculously, preternaturally race to the correct building, the correct floor, and the correct _room_ without asking a single person for directions.

Sheriff Stilinski was standing and shrugging on his heavy jacket very carefully, drawing his sleeve over his left arm. He paused at Scott’s abrupt entrance. “Scott?”

“I came as soon as I heard,” Scott said breathlessly, eyes darting all over Stilinski’s face. “Are you okay?”

There was an older black deputy with him. She had short hair and piercing eyes that she turned on Scott the second he barged in. There was something familiar about the shape of her face and the way she tipped her head up at him challengingly. He just couldn’t… quite… put his finger on it- oh.

_Oh._

Scott did an awkward little wave. “Uh, hi… Deputy Boyd.” Oh god.

The sheriff looked up from where he was shoving things in his pockets. “This is Scott McCall, my son’s best friend.” Scott looked at the floor at that fond introduction. He hadn’t really been living up to the title recently, had he? 

Before he could say anything, though, Melissa came into the room behind him. “Really, Scott?” she said, exasperated. “Just charging right in here?” She had her hands on her hips.

“I was worried,” Scott said defensively, shifting all of his focus to his mother. “What happened to him?”

Melissa looked at the sheriff over Scott’s shoulder. Then she turned her gaze back to Scott, catching his wrist and drawing him to the door. “I don’t think that’s any of your-”

“Wait, stay. I need to pick at your brain, Scott.” Stilinski rounded the side of the bed, putting on his belt. “Have you heard about the fires?

Scott faced him, aware of his mother’s hand on his shoulder. “Vaguely.”

Deputy Boyd rolled her eyes. “Teenagers are so civic minded these days,” she grumbled. “Here’s a more interesting question: do you know what the paper is?”

Scott frowned. “Something you write on?” She rolled her eyes. 

The sheriff made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind that,” he said. “This is important and, for once, I could use you and Stiles’ input on this.” He paused, as if just realizing Stiles wasn’t attached to Scott. “Where’s Stiles?”

“He left a few minutes ago,” Melissa replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I tried calling out to him, but he didn’t respond.”

Stilinski took that in soberly, his frown deepening. Then his attention flicked back to Scott. “Does Cody Masters go to your school?”

Scott’s attention shifted from the sheriff to the deputy and back to the sheriff again. “Uh, yeah?” 

“What’s he like?”

“A good athlete, I guess. But he’s also… pushy? And irritable. A bully too.” Scott thought about him shoving Stiles up against the wall. He scratched his neck self-consciously. “But not generally? He’s been on edge recently…” 

“You think he’s the arsonist?” Deputy Boyd directed the question to the sheriff in an undertone. “You think he burned down my shed, the lacrosse coach’s old house, the Mahealani’s fence, and then had the bright idea of trying to kill you?”

The sheriff’s expression was stubborn. “What I _know_ is that he’s the one who attacked me. What I _think_ is that he’s the one behind the fires.” He shook his head. “I just can’t figure out his motive.”

“Oh, that’s not too hard,” Scott said without thinking. When everyone’s attention swung back to him, he recoiled and then hurried to explain. “S-so Finstock dropped him from the team, right? And, rumor was, Boyd’s mom arrested him for the drug sales, and you’re Boyd’s mom so…” Scott stalled awkwardly, trying to think. Then it dawned on him. He turned on Stilinski. “Oh! He also thought that Stiles ratted him out to you. So there’s that. Maybe that’s why he attacked you.” Scott pulled back slightly, making a face. “I don’t know why he would go after Danny. Danny’s awesome.”

The deputy sighed quietly, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and looking like she was greeting an unwelcome epiphany. “I do,” she said, frowning. She looked back at the sheriff. “He’s not going after the Mahealani kid. He’s going after the social worker, his father.” Deputy Boyd lifted her eyebrows at the sheriff. “And if he thinks Stiles snitched on him…”

“That’s why Stiles is being framed,” the sheriff concluded in a low huff of breath before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Scott blurted out. “Someone’s- someone’s framing _Stiles_?” 

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Stilinski replied, looking exhausted.

Scott felt stung and hurt, stupidly, because he didn’t know this was a thing and he wasn’t kept in the loop. At the same time, though, he felt guilty because… hadn’t he gone out of his way to avoid all things Stilinski? Hadn’t he come up with every excuse possible to avoid seeing Stiles?

If Stiles got hurt while Scott was nursing his hurt feelings and his fears, Scott would never forgive himself.

Feeling sick, Scott took a step forward. “Sheriff, if you need my help with anything, anything at all-“

“What I _need_ is to get out of this hospital.” Stilinski’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “I have a punk ass kid to arrest.” After a beat, he shot a significant look at Melissa.

“I’ll get the paperwork.” Melissa caught Scott’s arm again, pulling him to the door. “Come on, you. Let the police do their police work. Don’t get in the way.”

Scott reluctantly followed his mother out, dragging his feet the entire way, but then the door was shutting between then. He didn’t have to strain to hear the sheriff’s quick orders or Deputy Boyd on the radio, putting out an APB on Cody Masters.

Upset, Scott turned to his mother, expecting a lecture about minding his own business. What he got instead was an enigmatic smile and a little push towards the entrance. “Go.”

“But-“ Scott’s gaze swung from the hallway to his mom and back to the hallway again. “You just-“

“I know what I just said,” she said, rolling her eyes. She clapped her hands on both of his arms. “But he’s pack, right? Go find him.” 

Scott hesitated for a moment, then rushed forward and hugged her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He pulled away from her and ran out of the hospital, mind and conscience clear for the first time in weeks.

-

“This methodology is so flawed,” Lydia said scathingly, journal two inches from her nose. Her new bracelet clicked gently, beautifully, with the motion of the car. Her hair was covered with her new scarf. She wasn’t terribly fond of scarves, but this, at least, was practical, in that it pinned and flattened her hair back so that the wind wouldn’t whip it around.

After Jackson picked her up from the airport, they took the scenic route back along the coast, which meant mountain on one side, and ocean on the other, lit up like a jewel in the light of sunset. The view was very, very nice.

But she knew she must have taken Jackson off-guard. The wild expression, the bluster, the deluge of gifts? This whole thing smacked of him being unprepared. But the only real evidence she needed for this was the fact that he had chosen the Porsche to pick up Lydia and all her luggage. 

_The Porsche._ There was barely enough room for the two of them, let alone all her stuff. She was feeling distinctly crowded right now, and not in a good way. She had one bag under her feet, another on her lap, and the rest were crammed in what little storage space his car had. 

Lydia was extremely uncomfortable. She had a cramp in her thigh, there was a hot, nauseatingly chemical smell coming from the AC, and she was nursing a mild sunburn. To top it off, her skin was dry and her stomach was empty and she’d banged her shin on the car while loading it up. It was swelling up into a lovely purple bruise and throbbed every time Jackson shifted gears.

The thing is? She was really ridiculously… happy. So happy she was almost breathless with it. So happy she was almost angry, because why was contentment so easy and so hard at the same time?

Jackson glanced over at her briefly, eyebrows furrowed. “How are you not car sick right now?”

“Practice.” Lydia flipped the page, barely reacting when Jackson made a sudden lane shift. 

Jackson was speeding along the highway at least ten miles above speed limit, but Jackson always did think of those as guidelines. He was calm, so she was calm.

Then he suddenly was not. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him flinch. “What?”

Jackson was quiet for a moment. “I heard something snap under the hood,” he said finally. 

If his super hearing picked up a branch breaking, she was going to kill him. 

She dropped her journal and braced her hand against the ceiling. “Okay, then, slow down!” she snapped. “Pull over!”

“I-“ Jackson’s expression twisted. “I can’t! The brakes-” He was stomping on the pedal and it was not slowing them down whatsoever. Her heart started pounding.

Lydia was aware of a sudden sense of fear and doom, but also clarity. If they crashed, she was going to be deader than dead and Jackson would probably survive, and he was freaking out about it more than she was. 

Jackson was going to kill her if he kept this up, if he kept panicking, if he kept yanking on the wheel like that. 

That decided, she ripped her seat belt off, leaning into Jackson. She placed a firm, clammy hand on the wheel, steadying it and straightening out the car. He stared at her with wide, scared eyes, fangs poking out behind his lips.

“Pump the brakes,” she ordered shakily, voice strained. “Keep the car straight and avoid hitting anything, even if it means stepping on the gas.”

He snapped his attention away from her and back to the road, his face half-shifted. But he obeyed her, pulse flaring under his skin.

Swallowing hard, Lydia turned her attention to the car. It was a manual transmission, so, while Jackson kept the car from skidding off the road, she downshifted gradually with shaking hands. Each shift shook the car, flinging her forward slightly at the sudden deceleration. She braced herself against one of her bags, grimly enduring it.

Then, when they were at acceptable speeds, she pulled the emergency brake slowly. It didn’t quite stop them, so then she pulled on the wheel and, with Jackson’s help, took them to the side of the road. Dirt flew and tires spat up gravel, but, between the emergency brake and the dirt, they finally came to a stop. 

Lydia sagged against her bag and, after a beat, Jackson stopped stomping on the useless brake. Her heart was racing and her face was dripping with sweat. Jackson panted in her ear, breath shallow and rapid.

Only three minutes had passed. It was easily the longest three minutes of her life. She let out a sigh, resting her head on Jackson’s shoulder. 

There was a long moment of silence. Then- 

“How did you do that?” Jackson asked in a rush. All color had drained out of his face.

Lydia sat up straight, clearing her throat. “Physics.” She used the scarf to blot at her sweat, making a face, then reached into her bag, pulling out her phone and tapping a few numbers into the surface.

“Oh,” Jackson said quietly. Then he opened his door. He didn’t so much climb out of the car as he fell out, sitting on his ass in the dirt and blinking up at the sky. Disbelievingly, she looked at him across the driver’s seat.

Worst. Werewolf. Ever.

-

It was swelteringly hot, easily hottest day of the summer. 

Derek had ditched his jacket and pants for a sleeveless shirt and his thinnest jeans but still felt like he was slowly being roasted by the sun. He wanted to spend the rest of his day lying under his sputtering air conditioner—and would have, had Isaac not opened their shared empty fridge that morning and mumbled a soft, “huh.”

They were out of food. Derek had been aware of that earlier that morning, but didn’t care. And Isaac didn’t ask when they were going to restock, if they were going to have dinner, or anything. He just nodded and closed the fridge and walked out of the apartment to catch the bus that would take him to summer school, and Derek…

Derek felt like shit regardless. He got up, switched out his clothes, said good bye to the AC, and headed out for the grocery store. He parked in the farthest corner of the lot and quickly made his way towards the front of the store.

The store was set at a permanent sixty degrees, which was the best and worst thing to happen to Derek in a while. He went around quickly in the chill, grabbing bulk food and avoiding gazes, only making eye contact with the cashier when she wished him a cheery good day. Derek never felt as inhuman as he did then, so separate from the comings and goings of the world. He grunted his agreement and left the store for the heated, sticky parking lot, feeling weird, depressed, and alone.

Derek piled the groceries into the car and got in, making a face. Heat was rising from the seats and falling from the sky. He’d left both windows half down, but it hadn’t helped at all.

Just as he was about to start the car, there was a thump on his passenger seat and the sound of quickly fleeing footsteps. He looked up, seeing only a red flash outside his window and a glass bottle at his side, lobbed too gently to break. Then he was aware of acrid chemical reactions slowly working together and a single fluttering burning flag.

His instincts screamed _danger_ and _flee_ , but his mind screamed Laura.

Burning his hands, Derek grabbed the firebomb and threw it back out of the car. Once it hit concrete, there was a violent chemical reaction and an elemental roar. All the windows on that side shattered, spraying the inside of the car and embedding in his skin. He lifted a hand belatedly, waiting until the fire burned off all accelerants and faded from existence on the concrete floor.

He was in pain, but that was a distant consideration, a low rung priority. He needed to know who was hunting him, he needed to know who the enemy was, he needed-

There were words—people asking people if they had heard that, if they knew what was going on. Their hearts were calm, if slightly elevated, and they were an entire parking lot away. There was a closer sound, a thump-thump-thump in his head. It was the sound of a heart rapidly beating away in gleeful, terrified anticipation. 

This was not a heart of a hunter. 

Shock turned into anger and anger turned into rage. He let red swamp his vision and come out in his eyes. He shoved open the door with a grunt and rose smoothly out of the driver’s seat, eyes immediately honing in on the culprit hiding behind a tree almost thirty feet away. 

Glee turned to terror. “Holy shit,” the kid said with feeling and bolted.

Derek watched him go and didn’t follow. Had his vision not been as good as it was, all he would have seen was the dark red of a familiar lacrosse jersey and the bold white lines that made up the number 24.

Once the kid left, he blinked and pushed down the shift again. Then he circled the car, scowling at the scratches and dents in the paint job. He glanced at the cracked side mirror and then paused, looking again. 

Then he palmed his cell phone through his jeans and called Stilinski. 

The man picked up on the second ring, rattling off distractedly, “This better be good, Hale.”

Derek leaned closer to the mirror and pulled a two inch shard out of his cheek. “Someone just threw a firebomb into my car.”

That got the man’s full attention. “Where are you at?”

Within ten minutes, two patrol cars were parking in the far end of the lot, bracketing Derek’s. Derek had changed shirts, reluctantly pulling on a spare, long sleeved black shirt from the trunk to cover up the ripped and bloody shirt he’d come out in. 

The deputy immediately shooed away the bystanders—the mothers and the teenagers and the bachelors standing around looking for a show. The sheriff, on the other hand, went straight to Derek.

Derek was instantly distracted by the state of the man. “You too?” he blurted out, eyes lingering on bandages and burn sore skin.

Stilinski lifted a shoulder, as if saying, what can you do. “Do you need medical attention?” He was looking at Derek’s bloodied hand. 

Ten minutes ago, there had been deep cut there, deep and to the bone. Now, it looked like a nasty scrape.

“No. It was just a nick or two.” Derek shoved his hands in his pockets, all too aware of the unfamiliar deputy approaching his back. 

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Right,” he said slowly. Without taking his eyes off of Derek, he said, “Martinez, start a report for Derek.” The deputy went to the car with a grim expression and a camera, leaving Derek alone with Stilinski. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“He’s wearing your son’s lacrosse jersey.”

Martinez glanced back at the sheriff with a raised brow. Looking ill at ease, the sheriff crooked two fingers at Derek, gesturing for him to follow him around the back of the cop car. Stilinski opened up the trunk, pulling out a long rolled up piece of paper before closing it shut again. 

“This kid’s name is Cody Masters,” he said quietly, rolling out the paper—the map—over the trunk. “If I’m right, he’s graduated from trying to light structures on fire to trying to light people on fire, and only luck has made him unsuccessful in either.” 

Understanding the trust that Stilinski was showing him with the information, Derek stared at him for a long moment before his gaze flicked over to the map. It had been written on, an X marking the arsons and assaults. As Stilinski was marked down a new X for Derek, he told him that they were trying to map out what was the kid’s likely flight path during all of this, but none of the established trails hit every spot of interest. At least, no trail that was on the map.

“Okay. But why are you telling me this?”

“He’s hiding somewhere in the woods, we know that much.” Stilinski shot him an assessing look. “And you? You’ve lived here all your life.” He looked back at the map. “How well do you know the preserve?”

Intimately. 

Frowning, Derek looked over the map carefully. After a minute or two of thought, he drew a line with his finger over the map. “There’s a trail here you might want to check. It’s a game trail, not official.” He traced the line from X to X. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best trail he could think of. “On foot, it’s pretty extensive and obvious. It cuts through most of-” 

Derek was interrupted by his phone. He palmed it through his pocket, knowing he had to answer. It was the annoying one he assigned to his betas. “Excuse me for a moment.” He stepped away from Stilinski, letting the man reassess the map. Then he lifted the phone to his ear. “What? I’m busy.”

There was a pause, then Jackson was spitting out, “Well, thanks, jackass. It’s not like Lydia and I almost died or anything.”

Derek turned away from the sheriff. “Explain.” 

He listened silently, phone creaking under the pressure of his hand, as Jackson gave him the rundown of what happened as well as the scent Jackson had picked up on the inside hood of his own car. 

“Shut up,” Derek told Jackson mid-rant. He weighted the pros and cons and then walked back to the sheriff. Remembering belatedly that the man was human, he turned up the volume on his phone and tipped it towards the sheriff so he could hear too. “Why do you think Cody Masters would want to cut your brake line?”

Stilinski’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Why? Oh, I’ll tell you why,” Jackson growled, his voice thick with aggression and not a little of the shift. Derek willed him not to say anything stupid or revealing. “A few days ago, I walked in on Cody trying to instigate a hazing. I outed him as the miserable, kid abusing shit head he is. He even _said_ I’d regret it. He said he was-” 

“Who were they trying to haze?”

Jackson huffed, not appreciating being thrown off his roll. “Stiles,” he admitted at length. Stilinski pulled back with a small noise, visibly distressed. “Nothing happened. I think he- Wait, am I on speakerphone?”

Derek watched Stilinski walk away a few paces, as if in a daze, and then hung up on Jackson in mid-sentence. “Sheriff?”

The sheriff didn’t respond. After a few minutes, he turned around, looking torn, dragged in two equally importantly directions. “I need to find Stiles,” he said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “And Cody. And I need to find them before _they find each other._ ”

Derek considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll let you know if I find them first.” He turned back to his car, ready to go.

Stilinski grabbed his arm, saying half-heartedly, “Derek! Maybe you shouldn’t-”

“The more people you have, Sheriff, the more ground you can cover.” With that, Derek gently untangled the sheriff’s grip from his sleeve.

Stilinski deflated slightly, but then he nodded. “Alright. Keep in touch.” He turned to Martinez, tone hardening with command. “Are you done processing the scene, Deputy?”

Martinez glanced back at the car, frowning. “Well-“

“You are now,” Stilinski said quietly. Martinez stared at him for a long moment and then nodded with a sympathetic grimace. He took a wide step back, letting Derek get into his car. 

-

Stiles was numb. If he was forced to describe what he was feeling, all he could think of was waves. Waves crashing over and over against the rocky shore. Rise, fall, crash. Rise, fall, crash. He was just so… blank. He probably shouldn’t be driving.

He didn’t stop.

He glanced to the left by chance, barely registering the faces he saw through the coffee shop window. Something of the sight must have sparked a memory in him because he then slammed on his breaks, almost getting rear-ended by a mid-lift crisis two seater done in hotrod red. The driver swore at him, shaking a fist, but Stiles didn’t react, pulling over to the side of the road.

He went up to the coffee shop and let himself in. He circled the ever-present line of caffeine addicts and went to the back tables where a few kids his own age were hanging out—Zane, Santiago, Marie, and Madison Gray. They weren’t his friends.

They were Cody’s and they spotted him first.

“Wow, narc alert,” Zane announced, drawing attention Stiles’ way. “Are we’re allowed to be here, Sheriff Stiles, or is coffee illegal now?” Santiago didn’t look up from his phone, but Marie eyeing Stiles like he was old gum cursed with sudden sentience and mobility. Across from them and with Zane’s arm around her shoulders, Madison just stared up at him with wary eyes and a flat expression.

Stiles didn’t let it bother him. This gang of morons’ only source of information was Cody. Whatever. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the damage even untrue gossip could do to a person. He had bigger fish to fry.

“Where is Cody hiding?” he said quietly.

“Why would we tell you?” Marie snapped.

Stiles’ eyebrows lifted slightly. “Because he just assaulted a sheriff with a firebomb. If you’re harboring a fugitive, you will be charged as an accessory. But, hey, if you’re okay with being locked up in prison, be my guest and keep your mouth shut.”

Zane stood suddenly. “Are you threatening me, freak?” Santiago looked up belatedly at this, blinking sleepily at the people around him. 

Stiles gazed at Zane neutrally, distantly wondering if he was gonna have to get in a throw down with a football player. Zane had a year, six inches, and fifty pounds of muscle on Stiles.

Stiles didn’t think he could take him.

“Oh my God, knock it off,” Madison snapped, getting between them. She pushed Zane back down on the seat before turning back to Stiles. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and looked at him awkwardly. She tucked her lip between her teeth, biting down.

Stiles just stared back at her. Of the group of them, Madison was the one he knew the best. She was his age, on the girls soccer team, and was very, very pretty.

“Is your dad okay?” she asked finally.

Stiles wavered, simple human sympathy breaking through the numbness and the rage. 

When Stiles didn’t respond, she nodded and said, reluctantly, “He hasn’t exactly kept us updated. Cody, I mean.” She looked at the floor, then back up at him. She seemed ashamed. Behind her, Marie looked angry and guilty, and Santiago was staring out the window, rubbing the back of his neck.

Then Zane sighed, poking at his girlfriend’s back. After a moment, Madison stepped aside and Zane slid towards Stiles. He linked his fingers together, wincing, and said quietly, “But we think he might be at that abandoned ranger station just north of the old crone tree. You know the one?”

Everyone knew the one. The tree was infamous. Roots had hit rock and folded up the trunk somehow. The tree was either dead or on the verge of being dead. From the right angle, it looked like an old woman on her knees, her long fingered hands scraping across the dirt floor. It was the source of a thousand of urban legends, if not more.

With this new information, Stiles got in the car again and drove away. He pulled off on the road closest to that trail, that tree, that station, and started walking. He stumbled into the first tree, breathing hard, shaking at the scent memory of singed hair and antiseptic.

“ _What are you going to do?_ ” Madison had asked him, steering him away from the others and their relieved, but unhappy expressions. “ _What are you-_ “ 

Stiles pushed himself away from the tree and walked deeper into the preserve with an even, steady pace, pausing only to pick up an old abandoned baseball bat.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the only thing keeping you from falling off that cliff is you. Other times, it’s everyone around you, collectively and angrily swearing at you and bruising your wrists in their hands as they yank you away from the edge. Sometimes, it’s both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: homicidal ideation, attempted assault, arson, bad decisions made by main characters (like, woah, not kidding about this, readers), verbal abuse, non-consensual drug use (and implications of similar past situations), manipulation, etc

Scott spilled into the vet’s office from the back, quickly sorting keys and heart beats, the tiny fast ones of pets verses the slow steady one of a single human.

He’d been looking for Stiles for an hour already. He went everywhere Stiles went, checking and double checking old haunts. But Stiles wasn’t home, wasn’t at the lacrosse field, wasn’t at the arcade, and wasn’t at Scott’s house. He also wasn’t at the library or the grocery store or the sheriff station either.

The vet clinic was the second to last place on his list to check and, heart in his throat, Scott quickly rounded the corner, converging on the sole human heartbeat. 

But it was just Deaton, distracted and weary looking, feeding cats by the handful. His eyes narrowed and eyebrows lifted up in question as Scott sagged against the doorway in disappointment. 

And, god, why wouldn’t it be Deaton? This was his clinic, not just Scott’s place to work and not just some place for supernaturals and supernatural-adjacent people to haunt after closing. But, truth be told, a small narcissistic sliver of him had hoped that, in his hour of need, Stiles would have sought out, well… _Scott._

Not today, it seemed.

“What’s wrong?” Deaton asked quietly.

“I’m trying to find Stiles,” Scott said slowly. It was like Deaton’s question had opened a hole in a dam, because then he was saying in a rush, “Someone’s trying to frame him for arson and we haven’t talked in days and there’s fires everywhere and Stiles’ dad just got attacked and and and-” His eyes were heating up and his chest was tight and he didn’t understand why this was- this was so-

“Whoa, slow down,” Deaton said, approaching him with lifted hands. “Is the sheriff okay?”

Scott blinked rapidly “Yeah. He’s- he’s leading searches right now. They know who the- _it doesn’t matter_. Stiles is missing and I have to find him.”

“Scott.” Deaton’s hands dropped. “Stilinski is good at his job. He’ll handle this.” He reached out, palming Scott’s shoulder and looking him in the eyes with a kind expression. “I know you feel responsibility for what is going on, but you have to realize that, sometimes, it’s not your place to intervene.”

Scott stared at him without comprehension. “Stiles is my best friend.”

“Yes,” Deaton said with an understanding nod. “But, in the end, this is a human conflict. Let the humans handle it.” He lifted a finger and went into his office, saying over his shoulder. “You need to focus on what _you_ can change.” 

Scott inched after him reluctantly, peeking into the room to see Deaton busily digging through the bottom drawer of his desk—the one that was always locked. Deaton pulled out a manila envelope and then dumped it on the table. The contents included a necklace with dubious, dry organic things hanging from it, a folded up piece of paper, and a vial of a faintly yellow liquid with the consistency of glue.

“I think I’ve found a spell that can keep Dr. Winfield safe for another few months. Maybe even half a year. What we would be doing is extending standard hearth magic protection to something she wears—a ring, a watch, a necklace-” Deaton looked up suddenly, as if realizing Scott wasn’t following. “Scott?”

Scott didn’t say anything for a long minute. He approached the table and nudged the things with his hand, tipping over the necklace and rolling the vial under his fingertips. The piece of paper, apparently, was step by step instructions so basic, even he could do it.

“I understand that invisible monster stalkers are important, but…” Scott hesitated, vibrating in place. Then he blurted out, “Am I just supposed to ignore my pack?”

Deaton sighed, leaning against his desk. “Scott, you are an omega. You have no pack. You’re all alone here.” 

Scott winced at the plain statement, knowing that it was true. Derek once said that Scott was the alpha of his own pack, but Scott knew he hadn’t meant literally. Now he wasn’t even one metaphorically either. 

Scott stared at the floor. First Allison, then Stiles—he had a talent for screwing these things up. And Derek wasn’t even trying to get him to join his pack anymore, and, if Scott could have counted on anything in the past, it was the fact that Derek really, really wanted Scott at his side.

“I’m alone. Just like Dr. Winfield,” he realized, lifting his chin slightly.

Deaton’s expression gentled. “Just like her,” he echoed. “And she has no one to speak for her. She is oblivious to the dangers that are lying just out of sight. Afraid and confused and all alone.” Deaton hesitated and then put the vial, the necklace, and the piece of paper back in the envelope. Then he extended the whole thing to Scott. When Scott didn’t take it, Deaton pressed him, saying, “Stiles has the sheriff and his department, but she only has you.”

Scott thought of what he’d seen of the surgeon through her windows—legs tucked under her, cold cup of tea cradled in her hand as she stared off blankly into the distance, flinching at every noise. Bite bruises bloomed on her skin like flowers and her wife was long gone.

It wouldn’t be long until she looked like Mr. Patel. Until she died like Mr. Patel.

Scott didn’t even know her first name.

Warring with himself, Scott reached halfway, then snatched the envelope out of Deaton’s hand with a swift swipe. “I’ll do what you need me to do,” he said, voice hardening, “but after this spell is in place, Stiles will be my priority.” He shoved it in his pocket. “I don’t care about any of that alpha, omega bullshit. Pack or no pack, powers or no powers, I take care of the people I care about. If you don’t like that, work with Derek instead!”

Scott went out the back. Ignoring his bike, he dropped to all fours, taking off towards the doctor’s house at a sprint. The faster he set up Dr. Winfield’s protections, the faster he could find Stiles.

The last place Scott had to check was the preserve, so Stiles _had_ to be in there somewhere. But that was acres and acres wide. Where the hell could he be? 

And why would he be in there?

-

Stiles emerged from under a tree, calmly eyeing the back of a wooden building. The ranger station sat in the middle of the woods, unoccupied and abandoned by even the most rudimentary trail. It had been unused for a good fifteen years, and it showed. 

When they were kids, Scott and Stiles were always told to stay away from it. Naturally, they did the exact opposite for years, right up until they were twelve and Scott’s foot went through the floor. He got a six inch sliver of wood jammed into his thigh and bled everywhere. Stiles cried harder than he did. 

Word spread, as these things do in small towns, and the adults rallied around them, voting to tear the whole station down. Right on demolition day, though, the state stepped in and blocked the whole process, saying that there were “plans” in the works to revamp and use that station again. They wouldn’t, however, give anyone a timeline or a guarantee that no one else would get hurt. Grumbling and feeling incompetent, the adults coughed up money to put in padlocks and fences, thus “securing” the place from having any more Scotts.

Hooray.

But that was _years_ ago—years of graffiti, years of helpful delinquents cutting out parts of the fence, and years of thieves making off with padlocks. 

Absolutely nothing kept Stiles from approaching the building and coming to a stop right outside the back door.

The wood of the station was termite and weather-weakened—hence why Scott’s foot had gone through the floor five years ago. Hence why Stiles didn’t so much open the back door as he did break the molding and push his way through.

Stiles stepped through the frame, nose wrinkling slightly at the musty rotten smell. He made his way cautiously through the station, following half-remembered footsteps of a smaller happier Stiles. He passed the dinky laundry room and the ambitious but miniature kitchen, and he slid a hand over what used to be a state of the art radio, but now just looked clunky and prehistoric. Then he stepped out of the small hallway into the main station space, pausing at the corner of a long counter.

In the center of the open space was a sloppy bed made of sleeping bags and fast food wrappers and half eaten candies. Cody was slouched on top of it all like some kind of hobo king, face relaxed and ears plugged up by headphones. Of all the horribly casual things to do after hurting a man—a good man, one of the best—Cody Masters was playing a game on his phone. Stiles could hear the loud cheerful theme music from where he stood. 

Stiles hated him so fucking much.

Cody saw him eventually. He jerked in surprise first, clearly not expecting the company, but then he laughed, amused and unworried. “If it isn’t the _snitch_.” 

Pulling out his ear buds, Cody indulgently wrapped them up around his phone and stood. Stiles reflexively looked away, shoulders tightening slightly at the way Cody snorted at him before swiping up one of the many drink containers in the space. Stiles stared at the wall silently, jaw tightening.

“Aw, bud. Having a bad day?” Stiles’ eyes flicked back to Cody, then away again when he saw Cody’s wide mocking grin. “Tell me. What pissed you off more? Your dad or your crazy serial killer boyfriend?” 

Stiles didn’t say a word. 

Cody’s mocking amusement turned quickly to jilted scorn when he wasn’t acknowledged. He took a sharp, threatening step forward, face reddening as he crunched the drink container in his fist. “Answer me, you freak.”

Stiles dipped his head once, huffing out a small breath. A faint humorless smile curled his lips once. Then he let the bat casually rock out from behind his leg before twirling it up and on his other shoulder. 

“Okay,” Stiles said simply. Then he grabbed it with both hands and swung.

He missed. Cody ducked just in time, tripping and falling out of its path. 

“Holy shit, man! Are you crazy?” He shouted this like Stiles was the one taking it too far, like Stiles was the one who opened with violent assault. 

Stiles didn’t respond, but whatever Cody saw in Stiles’ eyes made all the blood leave his face. He scrambled to his feet then, just barely getting up before Stiles swung again, cracking the wood against the floor. Cody fled towards the front door as Stiles paused, some of the fog leaving him at the sight of the bat split in two.

It wasn’t enough to stop him for long, though. Stiles stalked Cody to the front of the station, coming up behind him as he fought with the door. Stiles dropped the bat and shoved him through the weak wood.

The door broke, crashing on the ground outside with Cody on top. Cody groaned and started crawling to his knees. 

Stiles’ tunnel vision narrowed. He dropped on Cody and forced him back down to the ground, bending Cody’s arm behind his back in a textbook hold, a hold he’d actually learned from his dad during Cops and Robbers—a game for them that always devolved into tickling and breathless painful laughter. 

Stiles’ rage intensified, turned hot—then bitterly, bitterly cold. Cody almost stole that from him. Stiles would never, ever forgive him for that.

Teeth gritted in a snarl, he sought and found a rock about the size of his palm with his free hand. The rough edges bit into his fingers, clearing his head briefly, but only served to strengthen his resolve. He tightened his hold on Cody, ignoring his struggles and shouts as Stiles sat up, adjusting his grip on the rock.

He’d kidded himself all the way here, placating that tiny shred of morality left within him with lies even as his rage paralyzed him and his grief kept him going . Madison asked him what he was going to do. And he knew what he was going to do. He wasn’t hunting down Cody like a dog, it was just… a citizen’s arrest, right? He was being a good citizen and a good person and-

And it was a lie.

He was going to kill Cody Masters.

Pinning Cody under his knees and hand, Stiles imagined the act of it with wide eyes and a tight chest. He’d bring it down once around the head first, right? And Cody would jerk with it, wouldn’t he? The clearing would echo with the dull thud of rock hitting head, the crack of a skull smacking against the floor. But that might not kill him. Stiles had his head split open by a werewolf and still survived, so why wouldn’t Cody? 

So Stiles would have to do it again, wouldn’t he? Maybe twice. Maybe four times. Maybe five, just because. Maybe six, just for kicks.

He imagined slamming it down again and again, and raised the rock above his head.

(Stiles liked comic books—this was no secret. He liked everything about them—the plots, the characters, the whole shebang. He was not above comparing their new and horrible reality with the various horrible realities that existed in comic books, and he wasn’t the only one. 

Later in life, he’d pause one day and remember that hot summer day with Cody Masters—and then he’d think of villains and their origin stories. In many cases, the villains started out as genuinely good people. Normal people. People with loves and lives and children. Then, one day, something happened. A game changer. Maybe even a choice—a life changing decision that could make or break them as human beings. And they _broke._

And Stiles, that day in the near future, older and with more wisdom and experience, would duck his head and sigh, sad that he was not the one who made the right choice that day.)

Stiles brought the rock down on Cody’s head with all the force of his rage and pain behind it.

But, before it could go further than an inch, his wrist was suddenly grabbed and twisted painfully from above. Then he was caught around the waist and lifted straight up into the air and off of Cody. _Freeing_ Cody. Furious, he found his footing a few feet away and kicked off, trying to fling himself free from the band of steel around his stomach and back at the monster on the ground. Instead, he found out he couldn’t real fast, and why that was.

The six foot vertical surface of unmovable muscle at his back was none other than Derek freaking _Hale_.

Unaware of how close Stiles had come to ending his miserable life, Cody lifted himself up with a nasty smirk, lifting up his sleeve and making a fist. “Yeah, hold him! I’ll-“ He jerked back when he realized who his “backup” was.

“I’m not here for you, idiot,” Derek snapped at Cody. “I’m here for him.” He squeezed Stiles a little harder to him, a growl sending a rumble through his words. Derek sounded pissed.

“Then let me go _you son of a bitch_ ,” Stiles snarled, slamming his heel into Derek’s shin as hard as he possibly could.

Derek shook him once, like a disobedient puppy. “No,” he hissed into Stiles’ ear, breath achingly hot over the side of Stiles’ face. “Stop making bad choices.” There was a pause, and then Derek was saying in a louder voice, “You too, kid.”

When they realized that Derek was directing that at _Cody_ , both Cody and Stiles spat out identical noises of disbelief. 

“Excuse you?” Cody said with a laugh.

“By all means, keep mentoring him. Like everyone else you’ve taken under your wing, hopefully he’ll just disappear and die from your incompetence.” For a moment, Stiles paused guiltily, wishing he could take it back. Then he remembered that Derek was getting in bed with the enemy, _again_ , and renewed his struggling, digging his nails into Derek’s forearm and kicking.

Derek ignored him, focusing on Cody. “The noose is tightening in around you, Masters. They know what you look like and they know what you’ve done.” And then, with feeling and no little venom as he endured Stiles’ attempts to escape, he bit out, “If a teenage boy _half out of his mind_ can track you down, you can bet that adults on your trail will catch up with you real soon.” 

Cody looked ill at that prospect, but he was soon grinning, perking up. “They can’t catch me.” He stretched his arms out. “In these woods, I’m a goddamn ninja. No one can catch me!”

Stiles vengefully stomped on Derek’s foot. With gritted teeth, Derek said, “They can and they will. Do the right thing and turn yourself in.” 

Furious at his utter lack of progress, Stiles snapped his gaze back to Cody, who looked… strangely broken. Stiles froze. There were frustrated tears in his classmate’s eyes and he had no idea how to deal with that.

“Go to hell, man,” Cody said thickly. And, with that, he turned around and jogged back into the surrounding woods.

At his retreat, Stiles went wild, redoubling his efforts to get free. But Derek, the complete _asshat_ , didn’t release him until Cody was gone, well out of sight. Only then did his arms loosen enough for Stiles to jerk himself free and away from his werewolf prison. 

Stiles took a couple of staggering steps after Cody, but when he failed to see either the teenager or his trail, Stiles spun back around to Derek, panting and thwarted and so angry, he could barely see. Spitting nails, Stiles shoved him once, hard and in the chest, before bellowing, “What the hell was that, asshole?!”

Derek barely budged. He barely even reacted, merely staring back at Stiles with an indifferent expression. “Revenge doesn’t solve anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Stiles spat viciously, getting into Derek’s face. “Or is that the pretty little lie you tell yourself to feel better about running away from Kate Argent _like a freaking coward_?”

Derek’s expression didn’t change, but his eyelids fluttered betrayingly. “It was the right decision.”

“Was it? Was it really? Maybe if you had _the balls_ to do what Peter did years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place!”

And, in that moment, Stiles thought it had to be the truth. No one Stiles knew would be a werewolf, his father’s job wouldn’t be in jeopardy, a death omen wouldn’t be hounding his steps, and he wouldn’t have gotten snatched off the field by a bunch of freaking werewolf hunters.

It was all Derek's fault. 

From behind Derek, Lady made a soft sad noise. He rounded on her. He had completely forgotten her existence, but there she was, freaking stalking him and then judging him for his issues. 

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped at her. She was a death omen. She should _love_ this. Death for everyone. 

Lady whined and hid behind a tree, only her tail visible.

Great. Even his freaking ghost dog hated him.

Derek was looking over his shoulder with furrowed eyebrows. Then he shifted his gaze back to Stiles, tipping his chin up slightly. “Are you done?” he asked coldly. He shoved his hands in his jeans and walked past Stiles. “Follow me. You’re in no shape to drive home.”

Stiles seethed and felt sick with rage. He grabbed another rock and considered, for half a second, throwing it at Derek’s stupid retreating back. At the last minute, Stiles pivoted, throwing it at the ranger station instead. The window instantly broke, leaving Stiles standing there, blinking at the consequences of stupid destruction. 

Years of vandalism and squatting and who knows what, and he was the idiot who finally broke a window.

Werewolf healing or not, that could have been Derek’s head.

Suddenly, cold rushed through him. He felt gutted and lost. He lifted his hands up, staring at the bruised knuckles and torn skin. They were weak and trembling. 

Oh god. What was he doing. What did he almost…

Stiles stood there for a minute more. Then he ran his wrist over his face and then, slowly, he turned around and trudged after Derek. After a beat, Lady followed after him. 

\- 

Derek didn’t know why the sight of a boy having an emotional breakdown in his car was so relieving, but it was.

Scratch that, he did know. Peter didn’t do regret. Peter didn’t do sympathy. Peter didn’t experience crippling guilt and cognitive dissonance over hurting people. So, in the end, Stiles wasn’t like Peter at all.

But Derek didn’t know that—not at first—because the rage hanging over Stiles had been so vicious and thick and poisonous. It was the kind of rage that ruined families and brought down packs, and the presence of it here, now and in a human, of all things, was deeply unsettling to Derek. 

Derek hadn’t been able to talk Peter down. He’d barely been able to talk to Jackson, and Jackson only did violence out of fear and self-hatred. This level of rage and this sort of violence was born out of love. It was much more dangerous.

He frowned, pressing himself uncomfortably against the door. He’d parked on the side of the road when Stiles started to smell more like salt than fury, but he had yet to say anything. Feeling the back of his neck heat up, he palmed his knees and stared out the windshield. Before long, though, his eyes were involuntarily dragged back to Stiles, like magnets to metal.

Stiles was letting out low hiccupping breaths, eyes clenched shut. His hands were fisted on his thighs, his cheeks were flushed, his eyelashes were wet, and, as uncomfortable as he was with this, Derek just… couldn’t look away. 

He felt a surge of relief but also an equally strong pulse of panic, because… really? Derek was so not the right person for this. 

So, instead, he focused on the hard line of Stiles’ jaw, feeling awkward and insufficient, and sat there in silence until the silence had stretched on for too long.

“You shouldn’t- You know you shouldn’t have done that, right?”

Stiles opened his eyes a fraction, but didn’t look at Derek. “He could’ve killed my dad,” he said dully, and there it was—a flare up of that poisonous deadly rage.

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

Stiles still didn’t look at him. “Oh, get off your high horse, Mr. Let’s Put A Hit Out On A Teenage Girl.”

Like many of the hurtful things Stiles flung out at people, this hit was a bull’s-eye. Derek didn’t like thinking about Lydia and all the ways he’d wronged her, about how the blindness of his confidence almost cost a girl her life. While he might have been right to watch her, thanks to Peter, she had been entirely innocent of all things kanima. He tightened his hands on his knees.

“My mistakes have no bearing on your personal choices,” Derek said at length. “You’re the better person, Stiles.”

Stiles made a sound of disgust and disbelief. But as he mocked Derek, he was letting off a thickening scent of guilt. 

Derek smiled faintly, sadly, and without humor. He lifted his hands to the steering wheel. “Where do you want to go?” After a beat, he looked over at Stiles, and Stiles looked back at him.

Something seemed to pass between them, unspoken. Then Stiles was leaning his head to the side, against the seat.

“Just take me home,” Stiles said. He looked exhausted.

Derek nodded once and started the car up again, ignoring the ringing silence.

They came to a stop in front of Stiles’ house fifteen minutes later. Stiles got out and, after an awkward pause, came around the other side, lingering overly long at the door. Then he leaned over just enough to look at Derek. 

Derek tensed, tightening his grip on the wheel. Stiles had a great sense of timing, and this all but reeked of a devastating parting shot.

But Stiles surprised him. “Thanks,” he said instead, voice hoarse. For a moment, he looked everywhere but at Derek.

Derek didn’t reply, waiting for the punch line.

Stiles made a face, clearly seeing that in him. “No, really. I…” he trailed off, his mouth opening and closing for a bit. Then he was sighing and straightening to his full height. He tapped the top of Derek’s car in a little farewell before walking up the path to his front door.

Derek watched him go until the front door closed. The he reached for his phone.

Sheriff Stilinski picked up on the first ring.

\- 

It was almost ten pm and Jackson was dragging himself back into the hotel. He was exhausted. 

What a day. What a long, hellish, unbelievable day. 

After being utterly useless in his own car and having multiple adults shouting back and forth at each other over the phone for his benefit, he’d stepped out to get some air and walk off some aggression. Lydia had barely reacted to his retreat, caught up in her own head. 

He’d walked around the block, feeling angry and useless, and then, after twenty minutes, just useless and guilty. On the way back, he ducked into a closing restaurant and tipped one hundred percent to get them to make some dinner. It wasn’t the place he’d planned to take her today, but it was food and better than nothing.

Jackson got back to the hotel and got into the elevator, pushing the button for his floor. Then his phone rang. He made a face.

Juggling a bag of food in one hand and his cell phone in the other, he pressed the cell to his ear without looking at the contact screen.

“Hello.” His tone was flat, but distantly polite. He didn’t put it past his adopted father to call one last time, just to check up on things. Robert Whittemore was a mother hen to the core.

“Dude, I heard about the car thing. Are you okay?”

Jackson paused, surprised. He’d fielded more than his fair share of concerned phone calls that evening, sure, but a call from Stiles Stilinski was entirely unexpected. 

Jackson hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. Stiles’ voice was thicker and deeper than usual, but there was genuine concern there for him too—Jackson could hear it. Concern for Lydia, he’d understand. Not him. 

“We’re fine. Sorry about your dad.” Jackson looked up at the level display, following his progression upward with his eyes.

“Yeah, well, the way he talks, it’s like he was never injured.” That, at least, was true, and he sounded aggravated over it. “He’s like the Black Knight from Monty Python. Uh, that’s- He’s this-” Jackson could hear the exact moment Stiles decided Jackson didn’t care. “Uh, never mind.”

There was an awkward pause.

The elevator doors opened with a ding. Jackson sighed. “Lydia and I are going to stay out of town for a few days,” he said grudgingly, stepping out of the compartment. “Just until this blows over.”

“That’s probably best.”

Jackson nodded, then said abruptly, “Don’t call me again.”

There was a pause on Stiles’ end and then his tone was distant. “Ah, yeah. I just- yeah, okay.”

Jackson made a face at himself, realizing a little late how that sounded. “No, I mean- _Text me._ I hate talking on the phone.” He never knew what to say and the sound of his own voice was grating.

“Oh.” Then, brighter, Stiles said, “Okay.”

And that was that. They hung up on each other just as Jackson reached the hotel room. And then, softly, Jackson whispered to his phone, “‘Tis but a scratch.” 

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. What? Jackson fucking loved Monty Python. Shows what Stiles knew anyway—which was _nothing._ As usual. 

Jackson snorted and let himself in. He set down dinner on the dresser and started looking for Lydia. 

It was a nice room. Robert had arranged it for them from Beacon Hills. He was itching for someone to sue, but, in the meantime, took care of Jackson and Lydia. Robert and Susan Martin were going to drive down tomorrow to meet up with them and see how they were doing. Jackson’s mom Sheila held down the fort at home, making sure that investigation stayed strong on its course—not that Jackson trusted the police with this. No, he put much more faith in the human-shaped bloodhound that called himself his alpha. 

Not that he wanted Cody dead, god. But if he got a little roughed up in the process of being hunted down by an apex predator, well… Jackson wasn’t going to shed any tears. Cody almost killed Lydia, and Jackson would _never_ forgive him for that.

Lydia. Huh. He looked around. She wasn’t immediately visible, but her presence couldn’t be missed. All he had to do was follow a trail of items. Small, flat shoes were tucked by the bed. A bag was hooked on a chair, a scarf over a dresser. All of Lydia’s luggage was stacked against the wall, reminding Jackson that he had only the clothes on his back for this impromptu vacation. 

He turned the corner, eyes sweeping across the rest of the room and saw… Lydia. She was outside on the balcony, staring out at the city lights, arms wrapped protectively around her. 

Jackson pushed open the sliding glass door, pausing briefly at the heat, thick even at night. He stepped up next to her, far enough to give her space, but close enough for her to eliminate it, if that was what she wanted. He watched her profile wordlessly, but didn’t press her to talk.

Lydia didn’t say anything for a good long while and, when she did, she said it with a hint of stunned realization, like the slow epiphany that the world you were walking through was not actually a dream. “Where ever I go, whatever I do, there’s going to be something. There’s always something.” 

Abruptly, she slapped her palms against the railing once, making it vibrate, then gripped it before hissing viciously, “ _This is such bullshit._ It’s miserable and I hate it, and yet at the same time…” Her gaze flicked over to him. The look on her face was complicated, conveying both grief and happiness at the same time. “I’m so _glad_ to be here. It… feels right. I’d rather be here, in the middle of this, than anywhere else. How stupid is that?” 

He stared back at her and had no idea what to say.

She blinked at him. There were tears in her eyes. “I was going to leave, did you know that? This vacation was a beta test.” She let out a low shaky breath, looking away from him. “I was going to leave, but then I was so bored and irritated and lonely and- I don’t want to be a victim again. I don’t want to repeat this last term. I-“ She cut off whatever she was about to say, hugging her arm to her chest. “I was going to leave. I _was_.”

Still, Jackson didn’t say anything. Sighing, he looked out at the city, feeling his stomach drop. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where she was coming from. He wished he didn’t so he could feel angry instead of quiet, instead of resigned. The worst he could summon up was disappointment, and most of that was still directed at himself.

“But I chose this instead,” she said, looking back out at the city again. “For better or for worse.” 

It sounded…

It sounded a lot like the commitment he pulled away from, time and time again. The commitment he secretly craved but ran away from ten out of ten times. But she wasn’t really committing to him, wasn’t really taking their relationship to the next level, and, yet, something in his chest loosened, brightening up with hope and warmth and _relief_ because…

Because despite her better judgment, she wasn’t going to leave.

He let go of the railing to face her, Lydia mirroring his movements. They stared at each other for a moment. Then, helplessly, he was lurching forward, scooping her up into a hug, burying his face in her hair. With a shuddering breath, she responded, leaning into him and pressing her palms against the small of his back. 

They stood together for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s arms.  
-

Stiles was worn out. It had been two days since his dad was injured, two days since he nearly beat a boy to death. Two days since Jackson and Lydia were almost killed in a car accident. Two days since Stiles had almost joined Beacon Hills’ lofty ranks of psychopaths and murderers. God.

Stiles. Just. Shut. _Down._ It was too much—too much, too fast, too soon on the heels of an epically shitty semester. 

Stiles spent a lot of time sleeping, a lot of time ignoring Collins’ phone calls, and a lot of time avoiding the computer and even his TV. He had visitors, but he ignored them. He had food, but he barely ate. His dad had given up on getting him to talk, but Lady kept trying to lure him outside.

That morning, his dad paused in his room before going to work. “I don’t know if it was some kind of statement or whatever, but you and I are going to have a little talk about those nails in the window.”

Half-conscious and listening, half-daydreaming, Stiles blinked slowly, imagining fingers scraping over the window pane, leaving long bloody streaks. He imagined nails bending, breaking as they dug through the earth, and wicked claws parting flesh under red pressure. 

Silent, he turned his head and pressed it into his pillow. Sighing, his dad left.

Stiles slept some more, drifting in and out of sleep. It wasn’t restful or nice. He didn’t dream and he didn’t relax. Every time he woke up, he felt more and more drained instead of less, more and more unhappy than not. 

The last conversation he had with Collins floated into his head. 

It was late in the afternoon. Collins was frowning over the answers to the assessment he’d had Stiles take. “I’m a little concerned about your self-concept, Stiles. Do you know what a self-concept is?” Stiles remembered shaking his head. “It’s essentially the sum of all the answers you’d give me to one very important question: who am I?” Collins looked up from the papers. He leaned across the table, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Who are you, Stiles?”

He drifted into sleep, feeling like he was floating or swinging in a hammock without the sweet comfort of ground beneath him.

He woke up again when Lady scooted under his arm, maneuvering her bulk masterfully on the small bed. He curled a hand in her fur and tried desperately not to think. 

He focused instead on her, on her freely given affection. The creepy, crawlie cobweb he’d get from touching her had completely disappeared. She used to be cold too, then lukewarm as they got friendly. Now, she was blazing hot, and a distant part of him that knew she wasn’t actually that hot—he was just that cold. 

And that wasn’t good. He hugged her to him.

Who was he?

“I’m a good person,” he mumbled into his pillow. “I’m a…” His face buckled and he clenched his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath too close to a sob for his comfort. He closed his hand fitfully around the phantom press of a rock.

-

Scott was… well.

Scott was miserable, to be honest.

As it turned out, Stiles had been found while Scott was setting up Dr. Winfield’s extended hearth protection. Part of Scott was happy about that (and relieved! So relieved), but another part of Scott was bitter and guilty because, for all his words to Deaton, he had put a stranger before Stiles. Again. 

He sucked it up that very night and went to Stiles’ house, armed with junk food, video games, and apologies. 

Scott didn’t even make it in the house.

“He’s not, um. He’s not feeling well,” Stilinski said, an apologetic expression on his face. There were lines of exhaustion in his face that weren’t there before and, despite the hesitation, there was no lie in his words. 

Scott just nodded silently and stepped off of the porch. 

Self-pity and loneliness threatened to swamp him, but he forced it down, focusing on what he could do. And he figured, well, if he couldn’t find Stiles, the very least he could do was find Cody Masters.

He went back out the next day after summer school. It was an open secret that the cops were focusing their manhunt on the preserve, so that’s where he went. For lack of anything better to do, Isaac followed him, mostly indifferent to it all but present and watching Scott’s back.

“Oh god,” Isaac said, mortified, “what are you doing.”

Scott had dropped down to his knees and was sniffing a promising bit of fence from about two inches away. “Doesn’t this smell familiar to you?”

When he looked back, he saw that Isaac was making a face. “I’m really not all that good on the scent thing, to be honest.” He shifted back a step, scratching his neck.

Great. The blind were leading the blind here.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing.”

The voice rose seemingly out of nowhere. Scott flinched badly, almost giving himself a concussion on the fence. Isaac wasn’t much better with the way he spun around and backed into Scott. Scott made a face and nudged Isaac away. 

He wasn’t all that good on the hearing thing either, it seemed. Scott at least had the excuse of being distracted.

But Derek just lifted his eyebrows at the both of them. He seemed to have little patience for the way Scott rose to his feet or for the way Isaac shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I asked a question,” he reminded, tone biting.

“We’re helping with the search,” Isaac blustered. He did a little head nod to the fence. “Obviously.”

Derek’s eyes flicked from them to the fence and back to them again. “That’s an old trail,” he said accusingly.

“How old?” Scott asked, curious.

“ _Weeks_ ,” Derek snapped.

Oh. Wow. Okay.

Isaac seemed intrigued. “How can you tell?”

“Seriously?” Derek questioned. When no one said anything, he grunted and rubbed his face with his hands. “God, you guys are pathetic.” 

“That’s harsh,” Isaac said after an affronted pause. Scott looked between the two, worried but not wanting to interfere. But Isaac seemed to be holding his own just fine. “So we don’t know how the scent thing works yet, big deal. Why is that our fault?”

Derek dropped his hands. “Because you both were lazy and bowed out of training.”

“We didn’t bow out because we’re lazy,” Isaac said, voice oddly calm and steady. “We bowed out because your training is brutal and abusive.”

“And there was a reason for that!” Derek snapped, glaring at Isaac. “I force my betas to train hard so that when we get into these situations, I don’t have to play twenty questions to them like they’re _children._ ”

Scott had enough. He stepped in front of Isaac. “Hey, knock it off. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“What do you know? You’re worse than he is,” Derek said bitterly, stabbing his hand at Scott. “All that valuable time you had after you were bitten, you could have learned everything I had to teach you and more. Instead, you wasted it by sniffing after Argents and running down cures. You’re such a lousy, useless _omega_.”

Scott pulled back slightly, hurt. The last time Scott remembered Derek being so hateful, he at least had the excuse of being chained to a wall and tortured. 

But hurt shifted immediately to anger because… because that was uncalled for.

“Better that than teaming up with bad guys and taking advantage of emotionally crippled teenagers,” Scott said through the roaring in his ears. 

Derek shot him a smile that was all teeth and no humor. “You want to be alpha, huh? You think you can do better? Over my dead body.”

“Looks like it,” Scott said, taking an aggressive stance.

“Wow, okay,” Isaac said, scooting in between them. He lifted his hands, palms open to both Derek and Scott. “As much as I’d like to see the two of you hash out your differences, now’s not the time.” 

“Now’s the perfect time,” Derek said bitterly through rapidly lengthening fangs. He stalked towards Scott then, stupid nightmare eyes flashing. “Come on, McCall. You know you want to.” 

“Knock you down a peg or five? Gladly.” Red started bleeding into everything he looked at.

Distantly, Scott heard Isaac’s voice. “Are we really- ugh. Fine.” 

Suddenly, Isaac got between them, wolfed out and angry. Scott and Derek weren’t prepared for that. They weren’t prepared for the way he twisted a fist in both of their shirts, and they weren’t prepared for the way he lifted both of them up and violently threw them away from each other. 

Derek hit a tree and staggered against it, widening his stance to catch himself. Scott hit the fence and toppled right over, slamming his chin against the ground and biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

Shaking off the pain, Scott got back up to see Isaac pull his wolf back under his skin, the shift folding back into him like a well managed accordion. 

Across the way, Derek looked livid and betrayed. “What the hell, Isaac.”

“You’re both angry, I get it,” Isaac said quickly, shifting his attention back and forth between the two of them. “But you’re not angry at each other. Not really.” Then, as if warming up to the idea, he continued, saying, “You’ve been thwarted by your prey, right? Your aggression levels are high, your instincts are screaming at you, and your bloodlust is making you think that _anyone_ looks like a good target.” 

Derek was straightening, shaking off the impact, his expression stony at the suggestion he could be influenced by something as mundane as werewolf instincts. Scott hated him so. Freaking. Much. 

At Scott’s growl, Isaac pivoted slightly, lifting a quelling palm in his direction. “Scott, Derek’s not your enemy. He’s as invested as getting this kid off the streets as you are and, for some strange reason, he’s willing to help you, an omega, instead of running you out of town. Show a little respect.” Scott winced at that, but, before he could defend himself, Isaac was turning on his alpha. “And, Derek, lay off of us. You’re a born werewolf, you privileged asshole. Of course we’re not going to know how to do anything! But we’re here and we’re willing to learn and we’re trying to help. Give us some credit, damnit, or, at the very least, _shut the hell up_.”

Derek gaped at him. After a minute, though, his gaze dropped to the floor. Clearly embarrassed, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, effectively dispelling that mulish expression that reminded Scott less of a wall, and more of… well, let’s be honest. Scott’s dad.

Yeah, Scott was self-aware enough to know that at least half of his resistance to Derek was his faint, passing resemblance to Rafael McCall, in that he was male, bigger than Scott, and demandingly and baselessly authoritative. 

But, bully or not, Derek had always, always, been there for Scott. Scott could always count on Derek. In contrast, Scott couldn’t even count on Rafael for a birthday card.

Scott drooped guiltily. Then, hardening his resolve, he stepped forward contritely, lifting his hands. “I know I haven’t always appreciated your help. I’m sorry.”

“I haven’t always appreciated your humanity,” Derek countered quietly. He dropped his hand finally, expression twisting. “Isaac’s right, I’m not mad at you.” He was silent for a moment, then he burst out, “It’s just… this _thing_. This kid. It’s been two days since he was spotted. I don’t like the fact that we have so many advantages, and we still haven’t caught him yet. I don’t like that we don’t know what he’s up to.” Derek took a step forward too, then another until he was within arms reach of Scott. “Yes, I’m sorry. Please help me. I’ll teach you what you need to know as we go along.” With that, he extended his hand.

Scott looked down at it, catching Isaac’s beaming smile, expression wide and rare, out of the corner of his eye.

Feeling strangely relieved, Scott nodded and clasped Derek’s hand companionably, all negative feelings towards Derek finally dust in the wind. “Where should we start?”

-

Stiles was headbutted out of the bed around two o’clock. He crashed on his arm painfully, but did little about besides roll himself on his back. From his position on the floor, he stared blankly up at the magnesium bright eyes and bared teeth hovering and quivering over him, trying to remember why that was supposed to be alarming.

Then he heard a noise from downstairs. He shot up to a seated position, straining his hearing. He was supposed to be alone in the house, and his usual uninvited house guests were preternaturally stealthy.

Adrenaline flooded his system.

Lady let out a deep rolling bark that was both nightmarish and intimidating. The hair on his arm stood on end. He pushed her muzzle away and stood, wishing she’d save that for the intruder, not him.

Bypassing his phone (because he wasn’t going to call the cops until he knew what was going on), he grabbed his crosse and snuck downstairs, gripping the stick in both hands. 

He cleared room after empty room. The front room, living room, the dining room, and his dad’s hilariously small office were devoid of life. Brow furrowing, he went to the back of the house, knowing just the garage and the kitchen awaited him.

Once in the kitchen, he dropped his crosse on the ground, letting out a groan of relief. 

It was just his dad. 

Well, his dad wasn’t there—probably still dicking around with his car in the garage if Stiles knew the man—but his presence was still made known. It was not uncommon for his dad to stop home for lunch, especially if their budget was tight that month or they had some kind of treat in the fridge.

“Dad?” Stiles called out, projecting his voice. No response.

On the fridge’s dry erase board, usually used for swapping schedules and reminding children of curfews, was the word _E A T_ written in large, blocky letters. An arrow pointed towards a sandwich on the counter. He imagined his dad giving him that high eyebrowed, no nonsense look, and snorted fondly.

Suddenly starving, Stiles fell onto the sandwich, eating half of it in two bites while still standing. It was drier than his dad, always a glutton for mayo, usually made it, but still good. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he ate. 

The sports drink was still wet with condensation when he reached for it. The cap was looser than expected, flying off under his hand. He had to crouch down and pick it up from the floor. When he stood, he took a giant swig of the drink—then gagged. 

Ugh. It was bitter. Stiles eyed it narrowly before taking another cautious drink. Yup, still bitter. 

Lady had stopped barking, shifting instead into a long, continuous whine. Her eyes were blue again, but she was still upset, still trying to push him out the back door with her wide head.

“What’s your problem?” he murmured to her. 

She warbled at him in response, feet bouncing restlessly over the linoleum. Suspicious suddenly of the bitter drink, he held it to her, only to have her jump back three paces. 

There was a noise in the next room, like a thump. 

“Dad?” Stiles shouted absently. He stepped back, then went towards the sound—towards the now occupied living room. “Think we got a bad batch of-“

Stiles stopped abruptly, hugging the sports drink to his chest.

“Clear your corners,” his dad once said to him triumphantly, spraying him with a hose. It was summer and Stiles was nine and elbow deep in a water tag/hide and seek game with Scott. Thinking he’d successfully snuck up on Scott with his supersoaker, Stiles screamed in outrage at the sudden wash of cold from his dad. Then, alerted by his cry, Scott whipped around and got him in the face. 

“Clear your corners!” was all his dad said again, laughing when Stiles turned to look at him with a sour soaking expression.

Stiles, now seventeen, stared into the living room and into the corner he’d missed while looking for intruders not five minutes earlier. “What are you doing here?”

Cody Masters was in his living room. Dirt was streaked over his face and his hair was wild. Before, at the ranger station, he’d looked strung out and terrified and so smugly full of himself, Stiles could scream. Now he just looked tired and resigned, more like a sad kid than a psychopath, more like someone Stiles would sit next to unthinkingly in class than someone Stiles would run away from. Or hunt down for vicious bloody vengeance.

Cody had a handgun resting on his knee.

“Sit.” 

Stiles hesitated. He looked down at Lady. She looked back at him with a rumbling noise, eyes flickering white and blue with the indecision of free will. His pragmatism said he should run for the exit if murder was still on the plate, but…

Stiles sat down.

Cody was quiet for a long moment, just looking around the living room. Then he laughed softly. “Wow,” he said. “Not only does your dad put his job on the line to make sure you’re alright, he also lets you sulk in your room all freaking day long, two days in a row. Must be nice.”

Stiles didn’t say a word.

A full minute passed, then Cody was saying hoarsely, “I sat here in this couch for five hours yesterday, just waiting for you to come down. Then I had to race out the back door because your dad came home early just to check on you.” His face twisted into something ugly. “You’re such a piece of shit, you know that?”

Stiles’ mouth felt numb. He remembered pressing Cody face first in the ground, the rough edges of a rock pressing prints into Stiles’ palm. “I’m sorry.”

Cody stopped short at that, eyes widening and expression vulnerable for a second. Then he scooted forward on his cushion, sitting on the edge of it. “You- you don’t even know enough to be _s-sorry_ ,” he said accusingly, voice shaking. He jabbed the gun in Stiles’ direction, face twisting. “You took everything from me. _Everything_. You took my reputation, my clean record, my friends—you even took Jackson Whittemore, and he _hates_ you. You don’t deserve any of this. Not this house, not your friends, not your father-“

“My father?” Stiles echoed. His guilt dimmed with the memory of what happened to his dad, and then he was snapping harshly, “You mean the man you assaulted with an incendiary device?” Stiles white knuckled his seat cushion, furious all over again.

“Yeah, him.” After staring at Stiles for a moment, Cody snorted, eyes skittering away. 

There was a long pause. Stiles eyed Cody, considering how best to disarm him, but had little hope of doing anything other than talking him into disarming himself. Rage had played a big part in helping him bring Cody down two days ago, but just the idea of summoning up that kind of homicidal mindset again made Stiles feel ill and dizzy.

“Man, do you remember summer camp back in fifth grade?” Stiles leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the abrupt topic change, but Cody pressed on, prompting him impatiently with, “The last day of camp was family day, remember? You and your dad won the relay race.”

“Yeah?”

Cody’s mouth spread into a small smile. “Yeah. Good times.” There was a pause, then Cody said in a strange voice, “You remember my dad that day?”

“No.” Stiles licked his lips and frowned, trying to remember. “Um. Your dad was in the army and was overseas.”

“That’s right,” Cody said with a faint smile and a nod. Then his smile fell. “At least, that’s what I told everyone. Then, when my parents heard about it, they marched me in front of the whole camp and made me recant and apologize.” 

Now that Cody reminded him, he did dimly remember that: a dark haired, miserable looking kid standing in front of a crowd, judgmental peers in front of him, enemies at his back. 

It was strange how Stiles remembered the lie but not the truth. 

“Do you know why I lied?”

“Because soldiers are more interesting than pharmacists?”

“No,” Cody spat, not impressed with Stiles’ humor. “I lied because, even though I begged and begged and _begged_ , neither one of my parents gave a shit about humoring me for the few seconds I would have needed to be happy.” He bitterly gestured at Stiles with the gun. “And your dad came right after work like it was no problem, and played games and praised you for your projects and let people paint on him, even though he was still wearing his uniform…” 

And Stiles thought Jackson had daddy and mommy issues. God. 

“I hate summers. They’re always awful,” Cody said suddenly, pressing his forehead into his hand, looking distressed. “But this one has been really, really bad.” And, laughable sob story or not, he looked truly and genuinely… miserable.

The things is, Stiles didn’t like Cody. Stiles would never like Cody, not after this last week. But when shown the sudden reality of a kid with a gun looking like hell and shaking for it…

Stiles hadn’t felt sorry for Matt, but he did feel sorry for Cody.

“I get it.”

Cody didn’t bother looking up, but his voice was pure loathing. “Do you?”

Stiles nodded somberly, because he did. He got Cody’s situation. He got why Derek had looked at Cody and felt pity, why he stopped just long enough to give a complete stranger advice. 

“It just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?” Stiles said softly. Cody’s eyes rose, catching his. “More lies, more secrets, more broken promises. More lines crossed. Things keep building up and getting worse and worse. No matter what you do? Something goes wrong. Murphy’s Law.” Stiles blinked, focusing in on Cody, who looked riveted. “So you graduated from swiping things from your parents’ pharmacy to lighting shit on fire to committing assault with a deadly weapon. Each of these things was an escalation, one you only took because you felt trapped and cornered. Like a dog that has been kicked and poked and attacked so often, it can’t help but bite at whatever moves.”

Cody pulled back slightly at Stiles’ words, but seemed speechless nevertheless.

“Now you’re escalating to a murder?” Stiles said, tilting his head. “You want some advice? Quit while you’re ahead.”

“How convenient,” Cody said dryly, regaining his footing. He gestured between the two of them with his gun. “That you’d go and give advice like that now when we’re like this.”

“I’m not trying to save my life.” Everyone and their mother knew he was terrible at that. “I’m telling you this as someone who almost took yours.” Stiles caught his gaze and held it. “You’re not a killer. I’ve seen killers. You’re just escalating because you think this is the only way to get control back, because you think this is the only way to get back to normal. Not only is that not true, this? It’s not worth it.” Stiles blinked twice, then made a face, flapping a hand at Cody. “Hell, I feel shitty because I _attacked_ you, and you deserved worse than that. But if I had killed you, _like I planned to_ , your death would have been on my conscience for the rest of my life. You’re not worth that to me. And I’m not worth that to you.” 

“You so sure about that?” Cody asked, tone a little shaky but smirk full of false bravado.

“There’s nothing in it for you to kill me.” Stiles looked down at the awkwardly held gun, then back up at Cody’s face. “You’re not going to pull the trigger.”

For a moment, Cody just stared at him, eyes wide and expression off guard. Then, suddenly, he ducked his head, biting down on a reluctant smile. 

Then he pointed the gun at Stiles and pulled the trigger. 

Stiles recoiled at the sudden stab of cold and then- 

Stiles reached up and pressed his hand over the wet spot. “It was- It was a water gun? Are you shitting me?” His voice rose an octave at the end of that.

Cody scratched his temple with the water gun—and, yeah, now that Stiles was looking at it, it did look pretty plastic and fake. “I was stalling,” he admitted with a wavering grimace.

“For what?”

Cody didn’t immediately answer him. He looked everywhere but at Stiles. Then, finally, jaw tight, he said, “Do you always follow written directions?”

The broken seal. The bitter taste of a sweet drink. The type of drugs they found Cody selling. It all clicked with the suddenness of a thunderclap. 

“You son of a bitch.” Stiles stood and felt immediately lightheaded. He crashed down onto the chair again, woozy, and demanded, “What the hell did you put in that drink?”

Cody didn’t answer. Then again, he didn’t have to. Cody’s market was a range of drugs that sleazy assholes called “date enhancers”.

Stiles stood again, clinging to the back of the couch as the room spun under his feet.

He heard Cody’s voice as if it was miles and miles away. “You’re wrong, you know. I do get one thing in particular if you die. It’s called dodging an arson charge.”

Lady let out a deep bark. Stiles snapped his gaze to her, staring into her bright white eyes. A decision had finally been made, and it was not in his favor.

It freaking figured. 

He stared at her a little longer, thoughts crawling to a standstill. Under his gaze, Lady vibrated in place, looking frantic. Then, without any warning, she ran upstairs at full speed, leaving Stiles alone. Feeling betrayed, Stiles braced himself against the couch, facing Cody again as darkness started to swamp his vision.

Stiles did the only thing he could in those circumstances.

He hurled himself at Cody, fist first.

\- 

It was three in the afternoon. Exhausted, Derek dropped heavily into the driver’s side seat of his car, groaning softly when weight was taken off his feet. The Masters kid’s overlapping scent trails were driving him nuts. How often was he in the preserve anyway? The trails just led them around and around in circles. 

Derek rubbed the bridge of his nose. He might have had better senses than your average beta, but focus was focus, and his was shot. Everything was starting to smell the same—like humans and rot. 

He was about to call it a day and felt absolutely no guilt doing so. He’d been looking since yesterday afternoon and, brief negative encounter aside, Derek had complete trust in Scott’s abilities and his dedication to doing what was right. He wasn’t as sure about Isaac, but his beta seemed enthralled with Scott so… that would just have to do.

Derek lifted his head after a moment, nostrils flaring slightly. 

That _scent_. He opened his mouth slightly, breathing it in as he looked left and right. Where was it coming from? 

It wasn’t Cody Masters’ scent—that was for sure. No, it was old sweat and Stiles wrapped in the odor of grass and teenage boys. And, sure, Stiles had just been in his car two days ago and his scent should have lingered, but not this pungently. The only way it could have been this present was if-

Derek froze, then whipped around, looking in the back seat. 

There was a helmet sitting there, innocuous and still and out of place. It was red and black with a fading sticker. _Go Cyclones_ , it said without any irony.

Stiles’ voice, low and peeved, echoed in Derek’s head. “Why doesn’t anyone trust my systems?”

Understanding hit him like a bag of bricks. Then he was jamming the keys into the ignition and reversing the car into the road, speeding the rest of the way to Stiles’ house.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, letting go means giving up. Other times, letting go means you're just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: arson, attempted murder, injuries, language, child endangerment, etc
> 
> La la la, ignoring canon, la la la.
> 
> One more chapter after this. Shorter one, I think.

Stiles grimaced, nose scrunching up. His face was smashed into the linoleum of his kitchen and he couldn’t remember why. 

Groaning softly, he rubbed a hand against his forehead. His palm came back tacky with blood. Stiles stared down at his hand for a long moment before he remembered what happened—the events that lead up to this very moment.

Cody Masters freaking _roofied_ him. Then slammed his head against the table when Stiles charged him! He was conscious for that, goddamnit, _ow_. 

But why the hell was he on the kitchen floor now? 

Squinting up at the light, Stiles flattened his hands against the linoleum. He started to get up, but then, hearing the heavy tread of footsteps, instinctively flopped back down, going limp. He peeked through thinly slitted eyes, heart hammering in his chest.

Short of breath and wild eyed, Cody came to an uneven jerky stop above Stiles. He dropped a messy pile of broken chairs and wood on the floor before lowering himself to a crouch. His face was flushed, sweat beading above his lips, and he swallowed audibly, clearly jittery and nervous. He shoved loosely crumpled pieces of paper under the wood. 

Then, as Stiles watched, he lit a match and held it to the paper. 

It failed to catch. The second match burnt his fingers instead. Stiles winced when Cody shot up, accidentally kicking his knee, but managed to keep a straight face while Cody stomped off, shaking his hand and swearing. He didn’t go very far. 

Stiles stayed flat against the floor, hurting and sore and confused and _wondering_ if he’d missed his chance to save himself by not running out the front door right now.

Or now.

Or, yeah, even now.

But before he could do anything, Cody came back, armed with a stack of mail and a container of gas. Clearly hurrying now, he messily shoved more papers into the wood pile before splashing it all with gas. Then, taking one match for himself, Cody shoved the box of them in Stiles’ pajama bottom pocket roughly before forcing Stiles’ hand to curl around the red gas container. 

Feeling a panic-sweat coming on, Stiles made his body as uncooperative as reasonably possible for an unconscious guy. Even so, it wasn’t long until Cody had Stiles’ fingers more or less secured in the handle, and in a way that would be hard for Stiles to extricate himself from unless he was completely conscious. Dizzy off of the pungent smell of gas, Stiles forced himself to breathe evenly and not to panic as his mind quickly put two and two together. 

Fire tended to destroy a lot of evidence, making arson a hard case to solve. But if the investigator found the corpse of a suspected arsonist wrapped around a metal gas can with the charred remains of matches in his pocket, what was the most obvious conclusion? 

Yeah. Even a kindergartener could see where Cody was going with this.

Sniffling noisily, Cody stood and pulled a bottle of lighter fluid from his back pocket, liberally splashing the surrounding area with it. He flung the liquid left and right, taking careful, measured steps back with every swing. He left a good deal of space between the lighter fluid and the wood pile too, but when embers started flying, that wasn’t going to matter much. 

Stiles suppressed a flinch when Cody suddenly hopped forward, dodging lines of lighter fluid and bending over long enough to strike his one match against the floor. He flicked it at the pile of wood. It was a stupid showy stunt that only worked in movies.

But, unbelievably, the flame caught. With a whoosh, the fire came immediately and horrifyingly _alive_.

Cody didn’t wait to watch—he bolted out the door between the front room and the kitchen, slamming it behind him. 

Seconds later, Stiles leapt to his feet and away from the fire. He barely noticed that he’d knocked the container of gas over or that there were loud noises from the front room, like something heavy was being dragged. But before he could catch his bearings and reflect on any of that, his stomach swooped. 

He turned blindly, falling into the counter, the room spinning around him. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the surface, pulling himself determinedly away from the fire. When he ran out of counter space to use as a crutch, he paused and looked under his arm, squinting at the growing blaze behind him. 

It was crackling merrily and blackening up the kitchen wall behind it, but was mostly stationary, eating at the pile of wood and little more. Miraculously, the fire hadn’t hit any of the puddles of gas around it yet but it was spitting and cracking out embers already. It was only a matter of time.

Blinking past lingering wooziness, Stiles turned and batted at the sink’s faucet, trying to turn on the water. Nothing came out. Cody had prepared that far. But water or no water, there was no way he was putting that out by himself. 

Stiles had to get out of the house and get some help. 

He pulled away from the counter and stopped abruptly in front of the back door, jangling the doorknob, mind sluggishly trying to piece together why that pile of chairs and that plank nailed across the door were very, very bad things.

Just as his mind was clearing, he saw Cody’s profile moving past in the windows facing the backyard. Adrenaline surging, he ducked. 

Why the hell was he still skulking around? Crap!

Keeping low, Stiles turned around and followed Cody’s original flight path to the front of the house—or, at least, he tried to. The door wouldn’t budge. The next door didn’t either. The third door—the only one without a lock—opened about an inch before coming up abruptly against a cabinet. Thwarted, Stiles slammed his fist against it before dropping back a step, coughing against his wrist.

He spun, eyes darting everywhere for a clue, a hint, an escape plan—anything! But there was nothing, not even a phone. They hadn’t had a landline since the beginning of the summer. Too many people had it, his dad said. No sense paying for something they rarely used when they both had working cell phones.

A cell phone that he’d left upstairs, right next to his laptop.

He spun again, hitting the kitchen table with his hip, franticly searching, breath short. 

No phone, no way out, no way to get help. 

No _air_.

Eyes watering, Stiles hung on the table, hacking and struggling for breath. The smoke was thickening in the air, turning darker and darker. His eyes were burning and his chest was tightening up with a lack of oxygen. He needed- he needed-

Oh god. Fresh air—windows! He could have smacked himself, he was so dumb-

Stiles stumbled towards the biggest window he could find and dug his fingers into the frame. It was nailed shut. He swore bitterly, grabbed a decorative pan off the wall, and smashed it through the glass. Relieved, he sucked in sweet clean air and started to climb out.

He stopped for two reasons. The main reason was that the frame was just slightly too small. Outside was there, so close, literally _within reach_ , but he couldn’t get out. It was enough to make even the most level headed person panic and start thrashing about like a rabid animal. 

The other reason, no less important, no less anxiety-inducing was the presence of an unexpected figure—a small figure, an annoying figure, an horrifyingly _young_ figure.

Jesse Morrison was perched ten feet away on top of his trashcans like an overgrown snotty frog.

They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. Then, brushing glass out of his hair, Jesse commented, “Did you know your creepy stalker is stomping around your backyard?”

Stiles felt like banging his head against the wall, but settled for flailing at Jesse with his free arm. “Did you know my creepy stalker _just set fire to my house_?” he fired back in a whispered bellow. Then, reminded, he renewed his struggles, trying to get both of his shoulders through the solid wood frame. 

Smoke from behind him billowed out suddenly, choking him. He blacked out for a second or two, feeling like everything in his chest and head had seized up into one tight, powerful, _painful_ knot. 

The next thing he was aware of was two small child-hands wedging themselves under Stiles’ armpits and pulling. When he opened his eyes, Jesse’s bright red, straining face was inches away. He’d pulled his trashcan over and used it as a step stool.

Together, they strained, but, despite their best efforts, Stiles couldn’t get much further outside. He was just too big and the window was just too small. Jesse made a small panicked noise when something behind Stiles snapped and got hotter.

Frantic—and so close to freedom, he could cry—Stiles tried to twist himself a different way, but only managed to cut himself on broken glass. The glass cutting up his hands, he could ignore. The shard in his ribs, on the other hand…

“ _Ah_!”

Too late, Jesse put his hands over Stiles’ mouth. “Ssh!”

There was silence and then, worryingly, the sound of quick footsteps. Stiles knew those footsteps all too well. 

He’d been lucky that Cody missed the sound of a breaking window while circling the house, but there was no way an amped up psycho making his first kill was going to miss the sound of someone _screaming in pain_.

Frantic, Stiles grabbed Jesse’s shirt. “You need to go. Go, run, find your mom.”

Jesse resisted, pulling at his hand. “Stiles-”

Bless and curse that bratty little kid—he didn’t leave. Instead, he reached out to with both hands, as if hope, hard work, and the power of friendship could resolve the age old problem of a square peg trying to fit through a very small round hole.

Just then, Cody rounded the corner at a half-jog, eyes mean and narrow. He froze mid-step, watching Jesse reach out to Stiles with a genuine sort of horror. 

It was the horror of being _caught_.

He had to have realized that his haphazard, slopped together “master plan” to get out of jail had been for naught. He had to have concluded that, for all he’d tried, he’d just simply _failed_. He must have decided that there was no way he was getting out of this scot-free—not now.

Later, Stiles would think that Cody had several reactions to choose from in this scenario—a whole array of them, ranging from smart and good to bad and dumb. 

He went for the wrong one, the worst one. 

Wild eyed, Cody stalked towards them, hands going straight for Jesse’s neck. 

Everything happened quickly from that point on.

Yelping, Jesse jumped off the trashcan, tipping it over. At the same moment, Stiles’ hand shot out and fisted the collar of Cody’s shirt, giving the kid enough room to side-step Cody and flee into the backyard. 

Eyes only for Jesse, Cody tried to jerk out of Stiles’ grip, but that only made Stiles hold on tighter. 

“Oh my God, please,” he begged, pleading like he never had before, “Please, he’s just a kid. Cody! _Cody_!” 

Cody turned on him then, face twisted up, ugly and hateful, and shoved him back into the house with both hands. Stiles cried out in pain as the first shove made the glass cut deeper into him. The second shove knocked him free of the frame and made him fall back into a puddle of accelerant with a pungent splash. 

Stiles lifted himself up on his elbow, eyes and throat burning. “ _Cody_!” he shouted. He coughed, shakily pushing himself to his feet. He could barely see through the smoke but, with watering eyes, he watched as Cody shoved the trashcan through the window frame, cracking it. 

Stiles stumbled forward and threw his shoulder into it, but the can wouldn’t budge. 

The fire was blazing hotter now, curling wall paper and turning the wall into ash. The roaring, crackling destruction was almost deafening, second only to Stiles’ uncontrollable coughing and third to the repetitive, weakening thuds of Stiles’ shoulder hitting the trash can. The hot smoke swirling around him was almost black.

“ _Jesse_ ,” he gasped out, starving for air. Covering his mouth with his elbow, he stumbled forward and abandoned the trashcan for the window on the back door. 

Wooziness made him miss vital steps. He slammed into the door without any coordination, nearly knocking into the stack of leaning chairs.

He couldn’t catch his breath. Darkness was swarming his vision. The room was steadily shrinking. Urgency and desperation won over logic, and he dug at the plank nailed into the door, trying to loosen it with his bare hands. When his fingernails bent and broke, he spared one panicked thought of a flat edge, a hammer, a _something_ to get under those nails and pry the plank free. To get outside. To get away from the fire. To get between his neighbor and his classmate.

He didn’t have the energy to find that something. Instead, he turned and hit the ground, knees first, blind and gasping and feeling as if he was breathing in liquid fire. 

Jesse was in danger, and Stiles just- Stiles couldn’t even-

He couldn’t even _breathe_.

The door suddenly exploded open behind him. Stiles flinched, immediately ducking and covering. He turned back in time to see the chairs sent screeching into the opposite wall as pieces of the broken door fell off their hinges. 

Light hugged the silhouette of the intruder, highlighting the lines of his body as he stepped into the doorway, an arm raised over his mouth. Red eyes glinted above a muscled forearm, squinting and glaring into the smoke. They narrowed with worrying speed on where Stiles was laying on the floor.

One minute, Stiles was on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water. The next, he was being dragged to his feet, lifted up like a ragdoll straight out the back door and into the clear night air. His soles scraped across the ground finally somewhere around fifty feet, finding their footing, then the fire in the house hit something and it exploded. 

A warm body curled around him protectively and kept moving, kept dragging him away. Stiles was shaking, sucking in huge lungfuls of clean, strangely cold air as he clung to the arm around his waist. 

When they were a good distance into the woods behind Stiles’ house, Stiles’ rescuer came to an abrupt stop, forcing Stiles to stand with him with firm hands as he looked Stiles over for injuries.

It was…

It was Scott. 

And Scott was _shaking_ , trembling like a leaf. His soot-covered face looked haggard and was streaked with sweat. He was looking Stiles over frantically but also strangely delicately, making small hurt noises when his hands passed the dull aches in Stiles’ body, like Stiles’ pain was his own.

Stiles stared at his bent head, dumbfounded and speechless. Scott’s absence this summer was like a toothache—a sharp pain and a consuming one that you can’t help but poke at to make it hurt more. But here he was, present and somber-faced and so goddamn precious to Stiles that he felt like he was in the kitchen again, trying and failing to breathe. 

Stiles licked his dry lips. “Hey. Sup?”

Scott jerked his eyes upward. They narrowed. “Are you shitting me right now? That’s what you’re going with?” He sounded like he was trying really hard to be angry, but, instead, he sounded like he was about to cry.

Feeling tender hearted, Stiles shrugged, then he wet his lips again. “Did you hear about the fire in the circus?” he asked unsteadily, clearing his throat.

Scott’s expression instantly turned focused, concerned. “No, what about it?”

“It was, uh-” Stiles rubbed his wrist across his nose, flashing Scott a tiny smile. “It was in tents.”

There was a long pause. Other noise crept in slowly—the screams of the police and fire fighter sirens, the cacophony of different people yelling, still trying to get Stiles’ neighbors out, still trying to set up a perimeter.

And Scott was staring at him, the corners of his mouth twitching up betrayingly.

There was a lot of wrong between them and Stiles? Stiles knew he’d been the cause of some of it. And yet, it was… it was like there was a vast wasteland of irradiated dirt between them, but, just then, a blade of grass burst through all the crap and stretched tentatively to the sky.

“How long have you been holding on to that?” Scott asked curiously.

Feeling encouraged, Stiles replied, “Since we met Derek. Which, obviously, gonna keep it to myself because I don’t want to get gutted.” He did a little hand wave to encompass all the levels of suck that would entail. 

Scott snorted, eyes rolling and face tipping to the sky in his usual show of rebuffed disinterest—because Scott never encouraged Stiles’ inner raging asshole. Well, almost never. But less typical, less _normal_ was the way Scott’s face spasmed and his mouth pulled down, the way he shook his head once and looked at the ground, jaw tight with some repressed emotion.

“Scott?” Stiles stepped a little closer, frowning at the way Scott covered his face with his hand. “Scott, why are you-” Stiles’ voice wobbled. “Why are you crying?

Scott didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, he mumbled, “Because you’re way over there and, a few minutes ago, you were in _there_ and there was a fire and _I could feel you_ -” Scott sucked in a huge breath and held it, mouth pressing thin.

Shocked, Stiles stared at him for a moment and then, overwhelmed, he surged forward and wrapped Scott up in a hug. Scott made a pained, wet noise, and then hugged Stiles back tightly, fingers pressing into Stiles’ back. As soon as Scott reciprocated, Stiles was sagging into him, lightheaded and shocky as the weight of the last few weeks came crashing down on him. Scott took his weight easily, and the two of them kept hugging like that, under a huge tree and barely two hundred feet from a raging house fire.

There was so much Stiles wanted out of this summer—simple things, like parties and video games and sleeping in until three in the afternoon. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want fires and people suspicious of him and fights with his best friend. He didn’t want to be attacked. He didn’t want to be the center of stupid revenge plots.

He just wanted to _be_.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, gripping Scott harder. Nothing was ever going to be the same—no one, not Stiles, not his dad, not Jesse-

Alarm shot through his body like a live current. Oh shit.

Stiles yanked himself away from Scott, panicking. “Where’s-” He could barely get the words out. “Where’s _Jesse_ -” Cody was out there, Cody was going to-

“Hi Stiles!” a voice chirped at him. Stiles’ attention snapped immediately to the origin of the greeting, and, lo and behold, there was Jesse, whole and well. Oblivious to Stiles’ concerns, the kid was waving at him diffidently, a wide grin splitting his face. 

He was about fifty feet away, standing next to a limp body. He had a foot not-so-gently anchored on a collarbone, and he seemed so pleased by that, like he’d run a race or climbed a mountain.

“What,” Stiles blurted out without inflection. His heart was hammering in his chest, because that twitching and yet unconscious body was none other than _Cody freaking Masters._

Making a face, Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, here’s what happened…”

Cody had chased Jesse through the backyard and into the preserve, sprint fueled by his bloodlust (and apparently completely unaware that he had a wolfy audience). Once they were a decent distance away from the house, Jesse stopped running and turned to face his would-be attacker with a wide stance and a determined expression. 

But Scott hadn’t saved Jesse. Oh no. Jesse didn’t need saving. Jesse saved himself. He calmly and successfully flipped all 175 pounds of amped up attacker over his shoulder and face first into a tree. Five years of Mommy and Me self-defense classes can do that to you, Stiles figured, trying not to feel jealous. 

Between the sociopathic little vigilante and the surprisingly tame omega werewolf, Cody wasn’t going anywhere.

Omega, though.

Still in denial over his neighbor’s unlikely victory, Stiles switched his train of thought, swinging his gaze back up to Scott. 

Omega werewolves didn’t have red eyes. Stiles could barely see in the kitchen towards the end there, but he _knew_ he saw red eyes.

Misunderstanding, Scott shrugged with a smile. “Your neighbors are scary,” he said, like Jesse was the only anomaly in the woods that night.

Stiles’ mouth flattened into a frown, euphoria fading. Two hundred feet away, a wall collapsed inward, sending puffy embers up into the sky. And all Stiles could think was nothing was ever going to be the same again.

-

There were a number of things Derek felt when he saw that pillar of smoke in the sky. Terror. Breathlessness. Agitation. 

And the keen sense of being _late_. Always so late.

There were cars across Stiles’ street—cop cars, people cars, a news crew and two fire trucks. Derek stopped inches behind a flashing cruiser. He practically fell out of the driver side, hooking his fingers through the lacrosse helmet at the last second, afraid he’d be even later if he didn’t have it.

It was stupid, the thoughts you had when you were panicking. But Derek did trust Stiles’ systems, whatever they were. Derek trusted Stiles, full stop. And Stiles trusted him once and now-

And now his house was on fire, just like Derek’s. 

A deputy approached him almost immediately, looking wary. “Sir, you have to-“

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek demanded, blood roaring in his ears. The fire wasn’t visible from the front of the house, but the smell-

You could never miss the smell.

The deputy paused. He saw something in Derek’s face that made the stern look of professionalism vanish. “You’re a friend?” He lifted a quelling hand. “Look, guy, it’s going to be okay. It’s- Hale, right? I remember you from school. He’s-” Looking frustrated with himself, he took a step back and gestured wordlessly for Derek to follow. “Come on.”

After a pause, Derek did, feeling as if a part of himself was shrinking, shriveling away. Feeling numb, he knew that the worst had to have happened.

No one knew how to deal with these situations—not really. Derek had been told it was fine and everything was okay before a coroner, misjudging his age, ushered him into a cold room to identify bodies. 

So many bodies, so many beds, so many people so charred and destroyed by fire. So it was with well learned dread that Derek approached the ambulance the deputy led him to. 

But Stiles-

Stiles was _fine_. Briefly frozen with incredulity, Derek pushed past the well meaning deputy, feeling as if, after an eternity of drowning, he was finally bursting through the water’s surface. 

Derek’s tension unraveled as he took in the scene. He even smiled a little because Stiles was not only fine, Stiles was sitting up, clutching an oxygen mask to his face and talking breathlessly but quickly to his father. 

Derek’s smile dropped as he started looking for visible injuries—and injuries were present. One of Stiles’ broad shoulders was bandaged up, as were his hands. The paramedic was pressing a wad of gauze to his lean torso, calmly piling on more as blood leaked through another layer. Even so, it seemed fine. But there was also a patchwork butterfly stitches on his forehead that spoke of a head injury, which was less fine.

And just how many of those could he have avoided if Derek had visited his car just a minute sooner?

Frowning deeply, Derek approached them, helmet held awkwardly in front of him.

The sheriff noticed him first and tipped his chin up in greeting. Stiles followed his gaze and reacted exaggeratedly to his findings. “Derek! What brings you to this part of the woods?” He grinned, only part of his mouth visible past his hands and the mask.

Derek stopped mid-step, feeling distinctly… out of place. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Here he was at the tail end of a race against time, too late to do anything for a life or death situation that had resolved itself. Why _was_ he here? What was the purpose? 

What was the _point_?

Derek blinked rapidly, looking down. He felt… stupid. Inadequate. Slow. He felt like the helmet he had pressed between his two palms—abandoned and not fulfilling its duty, whatever strange and atypical duty that was.

Derek looked at Stiles’ helmet for a moment longer and looked back up at Stiles, frowning at him. He couldn’t ask about it, not with the people around. So, slowly, limbs thawing, Derek stepped forward and pressed the helmet into Stiles’ chest. 

“How about them Mets?” he said grimly, eyebrows raised.

Stiles cocked his head to the side, clearly confused.

And, really, Derek had meant it to be menacing, layered with meaning—a code. He was referencing a conversation they had a few days ago and trying to remind Stiles that there were _things_ going on that would need to be discussed in private. But Stiles’ expression was blanking, focus turning inward as he stopped looking at Derek and started staring down at the helmet like he hadn’t expected to see it at all.

Then, suddenly, Stiles’ head fell back and he was- he was _laughing_. He laughed so hard, his oxygen mask fell off. Derek stared at him stupidly, not understanding.

He didn’t resist when the paramedic shooed Derek away disapprovingly.

“Oh my god!” Stiles wheezed after him gleefully. “She went to _you_. That’s so-” He started coughing so hard, they made him lay down, and Derek just…

Derek felt as if Stiles just knocked his world sideways. What? _She?_ He didn’t pick any girl’s scent. What was he even-

But Stiles’ laughter was just so… _startled_ but so, so thrilled. The helmet, whatever it symbolized, made Stiles _happy_. So, indirectly, Derek had made Stiles…

No. Just no.

Derek didn’t know how to respond to that, okay? He hadn’t meant to make anyone happy at all—just to preserve their life, if need be, and yet… there was warm feeling in his chest, a strange vulnerable kind of pleasure, like when he realized that being the class clown got him more smiles than being the teacher’s pet.

As adrift and confused and _useless_ as he was, he wanted to hold onto the feeling for as long as possible.

Derek wandered back to his car, ears ringing for a different reason this time. He paused ten feet away, eyebrows knitting together.

Isaac was pacing agitatedly in front of his car.

After a beat, Derek sighed and regretfully let the warm feeling pass. Responsibility to his pack trumped everything.

Gaze barely lingering on Isaac, Derek let himself into the car. After a beat, Isaac slid into the passenger side, mouth pressed into a thin line and hands tapping tense little rhythms into his thighs. 

Derek didn’t say a word. Isaac was the one who tried to coax conversations out of people, but he didn’t respond well to people doing it back to him. Derek imagined that there was a lot of things about Isaac that could be traced back to his childhood and his father, but there was little Derek could do about the past. He could only handle the now and past experience had shown him that, while Isaac didn’t respond well to prodding, he’d speak if something needed to be said. 

The car pulled out of Stiles’ street and made a left turn out of the neighborhood. It was dark, even with the streetlamps on. Most people were having dinner or watching the news, not driving around with a twitchy beta. Not fighting a fire. Not breathing in oxygen in the back of an ambulance. 

Derek pulled into the drive-through lane of a fast food and put in an order. And, ten minutes later, in the darkened parking lot of a playground and over burgers and fries, Isaac broke.

“The one thing-” he said suddenly and stopped. Derek lifted his eyebrows, but said nothing, watching Isaac swallow and try to deal with whatever was eating him now. “The one thing I could do better than Scott. You remember?”

Derek looked away and kept chewing. He knew from the brief flash of time that Scott had been his that Scott had been the best at a lot of things. He was faster, more intuitive, and strangely more at home with his inner wolf than any of the teens who chose this path. 

However grudgingly, Derek had always admired the fluidity of movements of someone who had only ever really been taught how to flee, how to stand up, and how to stand between threats and pack. He always thought that Scott’s reactions seemed more honest than everyone else’s posturing. He liked honesty, even when it was directly opposed to him.

Scott was a great werewolf, whether he liked it or not.

Derek swallowed his bite. “You could always outrun him,” he said at length, remembering. Isaac was probably their best runner. Not that he flaunted it much. After he’d grown up out of his flashy stage, he preferred slowing down to run _with_ Scott than past him, and Derek had never got around to breaking him of that habit. 

But now Isaac was shaking his head. “Not today.” Derek looked over at him sharply. “He outran me. By a whole fifteen minutes. He knew Stiles was hurt.” Isaac shook his head again, clearly bothered. “Across town, we were looking for Cody… but then. But then he _tripped_ and he just knew-“

“He felt his pack mate get injured,” Derek said, filling in the blanks.

“He’s an _omega_ ,” Isaac bit out with surprising viciousness. Even so, there was less anger there and more frustration, more confusion at the way the deck was stacked.

After a beat, Derek leaned back into his seat and looked away. “Everyone keeps saying that,” he said quietly. “But you, of all people, know it isn’t true.” After a beat, he swung his gaze back at Isaac, staring him down.

It was the closest he’d ever come to confronting his beta about his shifting loyalties, but it didn’t feel like a confrontation at all. Instead, it felt like two brothers bending their heads together and discussing a mutual friend in hushed confidence of a shared space.

Isaac tipped his head to the side, looking back at Derek. “Does he?”

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? That, and how the hell Scott’s pack human got a helmet into a locked car half a town away.

Derek didn’t like unanswered questions.

-

Melissa was, as always, stretched unreasonably thin. Not only did she have to do routine checks on her patients, she also had to fill out a mountain of paperwork, restock supplies, answer requests, and aid a doctor with several tasks. By the time she got back to the second floor rooms, it was late. She was tired and reeked of latex and really should have been home an hour ago.

Armed with two cups of coffee from the cafeteria, she stepped out of the elevators, eyes rising instantly to focus on a pacing man. Her forehead creased in sympathy and she let out a deep sigh. 

Stilinski had the off-duty jitters of a man who desperately wanted to be on duty. His hair was standing on end from one too many brushes through with a hand and exhaustion was etching deep lines in his face. He looked deeply and irrevocably worried—not that she blamed him.

Stiles was in decent shape, overall. He’d had a cut on his head and some bruising, but no actual concussion. He’d inhaled smoke and he had cuts from glass, more than a baker’s dozen of them, but only one needed stitches. The smoke inhalation alone won him observation, but he was drugged too, and they were worried about that the most. 

Dr. Martel wanted to wait it out and monitor Stiles and his vitals for another day or two. Melissa couldn’t agree more with her analysis, but understood why a hospital stay would only add more stress on Stilinski’s already full plate.

Melissa approached Stilinski, smiling encouragingly when he stopped to face her. “The coffee tastes better if you’re sitting,” she tried in a sing-songy voice.

For a moment, he was a wall—strong, still, and unresponsive. Then he softened. “Liar,” he said with a smile, but he sat. 

She rewarded him with a cup and the pleasure of her presence, sinking into the seat next to him with a soft groan. Her feet were aching, ugh. What she wouldn’t give for a warm bath right about now…

A comfortable silence fell between them.

Next to her, Stilinski fiddled with the cup, staring at his hands. She rocked her head back, blinking sleepily at the ceiling.

“How are you always so calm?” he asked at length.

She made a face at that. “Calm? Me?” She laughed softly. “Do I strike you as a calm person? Because I’m so not.” 

“Then you’re better at hiding it.”

Glancing over at him, Melissa laughed again, too exhausted for words. Then she looked again, focusing. He smelled like soot and burnt wood. There was a smear of ash over the back of his neck. She had a sudden mental image of him standing in the middle of the wreckage of his life, palm massaging the back of his neck. 

She shifted to face him. “How bad is the damage?” she asked, wincing sympathetically.

Stilinski snorted with no humor. He squinted up at the hospital lights, expression wry and oh so carefully neutral. “Almost half the house. Fortunately, we have fire insurance, but…” He shrugged at that.

Melissa hooked her elbow behind the chair, resting her hand against her jaw. “You must have lost so much,” she said softly, feeling for him.

He smiled once, tight. “All that matters is that the most important thing in that house got out okay.” His smile may have been fleeting, but it was genuine, warm, relieved. “Thanks to your son, of course.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, ducking her head. She never doubted her son’s heart and his capability of being a hero to someone, but it was another thing to see it in action. 

She was so, so proud of him. She grinned, thinking about Scott.

Melissa looked up at Stilinski’s profile. Feeling her eyes, he glanced at her then. Then the brief look caught and stayed on her, lingering just long enough for Melissa to count the different kinds of blue in his eyes. Then he blinked and the moment was gone. 

“Well, I got to go and make some arrangements.” Stilinski clapped his hands on his knees, smiling tiredly at her. “Maybe get a hotel room? My house is a crime scene right now and my department wants me nowhere near it.” Hence the jitters, she thought.

Melissa nodded, straightening up in her chair. She rubbed her hands over her thighs self-consciously, gathering her thoughts. She’d been chewing this over for hours, but that didn’t make her any more ready for this conversation. “Um, okay. So this is-” She winced, stopped and started again. “Regarding our last discussion about…”

She thought for a second that he was going to play dumb. But then he was raising his eyebrow and saying, slowly, “Dating?”

“Yes, that,” she said, relieved. “What I’m about to offer is separate to that and, if you agree to my offer, that in no way obligates you to… anything else. With me. I’m offering as a friend.” She briefly closed her eyes, mentally kicking herself for being so awkward about this. 

“What’s the offer?” Stilinski sounded amused.

Melissa shot him a look, but her thoughts quickly turned inward. This wasn’t something she was going to offer lightly. After all, she’d _fought_ for that house. Rafael had been the one to leave and he didn’t want it, but she had fought for it so much. Paying for it, renovating it, maintaining all the broken things. She’d shed blood, sweat, and tears over that stupid, drafty thing. More importantly, though, she had spend so much time redefining her living space so there wasn’t a hole, a gaping bloody wound left behind by a selfish drunk prick who chose running away over growing up. 

It had taken so her so long, but she was so comfortable with it now, with having that space all to herself and Scott—and only to herself and Scott. So it surprised her how little it bothered her to say what she said next.

“Stay with us at our house.”

After all, there was always room for family.

\- 

The nurses hated Stiles—they just had to. He kept getting up and touching stuff and wandering down the hall in the middle of the night, but, you know, he couldn’t help it. After so many days of feeling drained and numb, he felt wired and restless. He took apart a lamp and made half of a paper doll out of a page of his medical chart before the nurses gave up and gave him something to sleep. 

It was the deepest, best sleep of his life.

He woke up once, briefly, at one in the morning, only to find that he wasn’t alone. 

There was a huge furry face on the side of his bed, endearing in its familiarity. 

“Good morning, my Lady,” he rumbled through a sleep thickened throat. 

But Lady barely responded. She had her chin perched on his wrist and her blue eyes rolled slightly to his face, but that was it. She was just… sitting there. Hunched. Huge. Faded out and exhausted. 

Stiles freed his wrist, petting her head. The bursts of cold and creepy crawlies were back again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She wasn’t normal. She wasn’t natural. But she was his friend, and loyal to boot.

And he’d thought she abandoned him in that house. Instead, she pushed herself to the limits, just to make sure the warning got out—even if it was to the wrong person. 

“Good girl,” Stiles whispered affectionately. “No more death warning runs for you.” As if agreeing, she tiredly licked his fingers, then shoved her nose under his hand.

Stiles couldn’t imagine what Derek was thinking right now. How he was trying to justify what happened, if he was trying to figure it out…

Stiles’ smile dimmed, remembering it. Big, muscle-y alpha predator—he’d looked so scared. Stiles regretted laughing now, remembering that face. Plus, for all his faults, Derek had come running to Stiles, and that was sort of… sweet.

He traced the edge of one of Lady’s ears. Maybe Derek wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

As people do, especially in hospitals, Stiles fell asleep again. When he woke up, he still wasn’t alone.

Lady was lying flat out on the floor, barely moving. And on the visitor chair, barely an arm’s length away, was none other than Deputy Boyd.

Alarmed, Stiles tried to fake nonchalance, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning. “Uh oh,” he said hoarsely, licking dry lips. He scooted up to a seated position, not wanting to do this prone.

He was so going to freaking jail, oh god.

She made a face. “No uh oh. Just… hello. Hi.” And, as an extra topping to the awkward sundae, she did a little circular wave, grimacing. 

Stiles squinted at her for a long moment before rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. “No offense, but… why? You already got my statement. Unless you want me to clarify something?” Sitting up straighter, he settled the sheets around his waist. He was so not prepared for this. “I could-“

“No,” she said sharply. Wincing, she said softer, “No. I… I wanted to apologize. I was hard on you when you didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I deserved it for something,” Stiles blustered after a beat, still trying to absorb what she said, analyzing it for strings and traps.

She shot him an unimpressed look. “Take the apology, Stilinski.”

Stiles nodded obediently, mumbling his acceptance of it. Heart pounding in his ears, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Soon, he found himself looking at the walls and fiddling with his fingers. Deputy Boyd wasn’t much better, pulling a string out of the pants of her uniform. 

After a good two minutes of them ignoring each other, she finally broke the silence. “The kid was framing you, did you know that? We found your backpack in his room.” When Stiles looked at her, her eyebrows were high on her forehead, needled together. “He was making it look like you were near all the fires.”

Stiles stilled. Then, seriously, he said quietly, “I had a feeling.”

Deputy Boyd nodded before abruptly changing topics, tone changing from soft and apologetic to sharp and cajoling. “You know, He said you came at him with a bat a few days ago.” She stared at him for a long moment, gaze unwavering. Then, strangely, she shrugged. “He was also said you had a middle aged boyfriend with glowing demon eyes, so… I don’t think that line of inquiry will go much further.”

The abrupt confrontation about his briefly homicidal behavior made his heart rate skyrocket, adrenaline surging in his veins. He channeled all of that into amusement, muttering, “Middle aged? That’s hilarious.” 

She cocked her head at him, curious, but didn’t press him for details.

Was this it? Was he- 

Was he actually going to get away with aggravated assault—or, no. That was straight up assault with a deadly weapon, wasn’t it? Holy crap. What the hell was he thinking? Going after a guy like that, jeez. Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, sneaking a look at Deputy Boyd.

She was rubbing her temples. The action highlighted the exhaustion on her face and, in that moment, he was reminded keenly that she was a mom. Stiles looked anywhere but at her for a moment, missing his own fiercely. 

Old buried guilt clawed at him, though, demanding voice. Then, finally, quietly, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

She looked amused. “I can live without a shed.”

“I mean, with Bo- _Vernon_ missing,” Stiles said directly, cutting to the heart of the matter.

He was expecting to be brushed off or, at the very least, deflected. But there was something about this place, something about being tucked away in the quiet corner of the hospital at five in the morning that loosened tongues and made one introspective and trusting of the company they kept.

As Stiles watched her, Deputy Boyd opened her mouth, then closed it, before opening it again to speak. Her expression turned self-reflective. “Our life together… wasn’t the easiest,” she said, voice hushed. She blinked rapidly. “Maybe- maybe that’s why he ran off and-”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles said immediately, then regretted his vehemence. It made her look at him strange. “I mean, I didn’t know him well, personally, but… you’re not the reason he left.” Lingering too close to secrets that weren’t his to tell, he sat up straighter in his bed again, coughing out, “You’re fine.”

Deputy Boyd rewarded him with a faint smile.

-

Derek broke into the house by sticking a claw in the lock of the front door. There were other ways to break in, of course, but none as quiet as just opening the door. 

It was late. Most of the people in the house were asleep, or getting there, so he shut the door behind him silently. He hadn’t run afoul of Melissa McCall, and he’d like to keep it that way.

Of course, he should probably start by buying her a new door knob, but that was a thought for another time.

Derek walked into the darkened living room, attention narrowing on the familiar babump-ba-babump of a heartbeat too fast to be anyone else but the very person he’d broken a door knob for.

Stiles sitting on the couch, blearily watching the start screen of a movie replay itself over and over. He was laying half on his side oddly, like he was positioned around something, and, when Derek stepped into the room, Stiles just looked up and blinked at him, just tired enough not to be surprised.

“What the hell,” Stiles said mildly, sitting up. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palms. “You break in here too? I thought we had something special.”

“That explanation you gave over the phone? It’s bullshit.”

Stiles squinted at him. “That’s harsh.”

Irritated, Derek didn’t pull back the alpha in him that reared up and demanded answers. “Been thinking about it more and more. An invisible dog that can move a helmet across town? That doesn’t seem right.”

Stiles sighed deeply, like Derek was a terrible nuisance. “Starting to regret telling you about Lady.”

Stiles was _so_ frustrating. 

“It’s not a hallucination,” Derek said, thinking out loud. Narrowed eyes stayed on Stiles, watching for the betrayal of a reaction. “Hallucinations don’t move things. It’s not a ghost, because, while they can move things, they can’t move them across town.” Stiles continued to stare up at him with a placid expression. Rubbed the wrong way by that, Derek stalked closer, words coming out through gritted teeth. “So the question stands. _What. Is. It._ ”

Stiles sighed, then pushed himself up and off the couch. “It’s a friend, Derek. Remember those?”

Derek ignored the jib, cocking his head to the side. “Nothing good comes out of having invisible friends, Stiles.” After a beat, he took a step back, staring to turn around. “Come on. We’re seeing Deaton.”

“Uh, no?”

Derek stopped mid-step, then turned back around. “That wasn’t a request, Stiles.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, then let out an ugly little huff of a laugh. “Why do you always think I’m going to roll over for you, huh?” he asked softly. He closed the space between them with slow, measured, angry steps that had Derek’s hackles rising. “Is it because you’re big? Is it because you’re intimidating? Because that only goes so far.”

Derek closed his eyes and did a ten count, willing himself calm down, to be rational and to appeal to Stiles’ logical side. 

The words didn’t come out right. “Stiles, come with me, now, or else-”

“Or else what?” The vague smirk on Stiles’ face fell. “What are you gonna do? _Huff and puff and blow my house down_?”

Derek staggered back a step, unable to help himself, because Stiles had suddenly jumped from a sarcastic three to furious ten on an aggression scale and Derek couldn’t figure out why. 

Well, that was a lie. Derek could guess why with some certainty, he just didn’t know why it was directed at him. It was frustrating.

So he just stared at Stiles, whose jaw was tight and whose eyes were glittering with anger. 

The lights suddenly flicked on. Derek flinched, not expecting that, having never noticed Scott come down the stairs in the first place. 

“What’s going on here?” Scott asked.

Derek blinked away the spots in his vision. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?” 

“I thought,” Scott said mildly, “that I might give you the chance to explain why you broke into my house.” 

Fair enough. Derek shrugged, then looked at Stiles, waiting for him to explain. No explanation came, though. The rage on his face had eased considerably, but he was looking at something on the couch with a troubled distracted expression. 

Whatever. He gave Stiles his chance.

“Despite being drugged and tied up and _unconscious in a burning house_ , Stiles somehow managed to warn me that he was in danger.”

“Texting is a thing,” Scott said cautiously.

Derek rolled his eyes. “He didn’t have his phone either, idiot.”

“And I was trying to warn Isaac, actually,” Stiles said with a winning smile. Scott shot him a look that made him immediately turn defensive. “So what? I had help.”

Scott glanced at Derek, then said, “The dog you’re always seeing? The one only you can see?”

Stiles blanched. “How do you-”

“He’s right,” Scott interrupted, frown deepening. “We need to talk to Deaton.”

Stiles gaped at him. Then, flapping his finger at Scott, he exclaimed, “Betrayal! Betrayal of the highest order!”

Scott merely raised his eyebrows. “You disagree with him?” he asked curiously in a useless undertone.

Expecting Stiles to suddenly start in on a diatribe on Derek’s faults, he was surprised when Stiles instead swayed slightly towards Scott, whispering, “Not- not necessarily.” Stiles gestured at Derek. “But it’s the principle of the matter. He needs to learn what the word no sounds like _or he’ll never learn_.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Get your shoes, Stiles.”

“Whatever. You’re explaining this to your mom, by the way.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Actually, no, I’ll explain it to your mom. You, zip it.” Despite his words, Stiles slung an arm over Scott’s shoulder, body loose and compliant as they both went upstairs.

Derek watched them both go, alone under an artificial glow.

-

Derek drove them to the vet’s, but not before Scott called Deaton and gave him a heads up.

Under different circumstances, Scott might have felt guilty about waking Deaton up in the middle of the night. Even so, there was a sort of smoothness to the way his boss took charge—like this was normal, like this was expected, like everything was going to be fine.

It calmed Scott down in a way few things could, quieting the thoughts in his head that berated him fiercely for forgetting Stiles’ oddness pre-fight and for not realizing how that oddness could be tied to the thing that killed poor Mr. Patel. 

Invisible monsters. Goddamn. 

Sticking close to him, Scott forced a smile for Stiles when Deaton took Stiles’ hands and examined them critically. While Stiles shot confused, worried looks Scott’s way, Deaton then spread a fine dark powder over a mirror and had Stiles gently blow over it. When Stiles was done, he tilted it up and looked at something on the floor.

“Huh,” Deaton said to himself, frowning.

“Huh?” Stiles started to crowd up behind Deaton’s shoulder, only to be reeled back by Scott’s anchoring hand in his shoulder. “Is that- is that good or bad?”

Deaton angled the mirror very carefully, trying not to disturb the dust. “It looks like Stiles was right this time.” He looked up, making eye contact with Scott briefly but meaningfully. “It is indeed a death omen.”

“I’m always right,” Stiles complained, but Scott could barely hear him over the rushing sound in his ears.

He was just- He was just _so_ relieved. He let go of Stiles then, sagging back against an open counter. 

Relief was short lived, though. His hackles rose when he realized Derek was watching him with narrowed eyes.

Derek’s gaze flicked back to Deaton. “But it’s following him around. That’s not normal, is it?”

“Have you ever heard of the hounds of Hecate?” Deaton asked distracted, catching Stiles’ wrist and looking at something none of them could see. “It’s not uncommon for people of a certain persuasion to chain spirits to themselves to augment their power.” He flipped Stiles’ wrist over, looking at the top of his hands. “It never ends well, especially not for the spirit.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles demanded, eyebrows bunching together.

“Well, it’s like this.” Releasing his wrist, Deaton met his gaze. “As people, one of our life’s goals is to find purpose, a function within our society and culture. But for death omens and spirits like them, this is not quite the case.”

Scott didn’t get where Deaton was going with this, but Stiles’ eyes suddenly lit up with understanding. “For them, existence _is_ function.”

“And function is existence,” Deaton said, agreeing. He paused, a concerned look passing over his face. “You’re out of danger now, Stiles. You’re safe. Have you noticed a certain lagging of your friend’s spirits?”

Stiles didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, very quietly, he muttered, “She seems really tired.”

Scott’s heart ached for him. But Deaton nodded, as if he expected that. “When there is no function with these types of creatures, there is no existence.” He shook his head. “She’s a death omen. If she doesn’t have the opportunity to do her function as a death omen, she will slow down, stop moving, and, eventually, cease to exist.” 

Stiles looked horrified at that, worried for his friend.

But Scott? Scott was worried for _his_. He looked away, tightening his jaw at the wall. What Deaton didn’t say was that the fact that she hadn’t slowed down before only spoke to the incredible amount of danger Stiles had been in during those few weeks. 

Stiles had been host to a healthy death omen for so long because Stiles had been in danger for a very long time—the alpha pack, the sleep deprivation, the fires, their classmate… 

And no one noticed. Not even Scott, and he was _never_ going to forgive himself for that.

“So, what,” Derek said flatly, voice breaking into Scott’s thoughts. “We wait it out and it will just go away? Cease to exist?”

Stiles shot a hot glare his way. “Thanks, asshole.”

Derek seemed flustered by that. “I’m not-“

“I wouldn’t suggest waiting the omen out either,” Deaton interrupted, raising his eyebrows at Derek. When Derek looked away, irritably crossing his arms, Deaton looked back at Stiles with a concerned expression. “Have you been sleeping a lot recently?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, smelling embarrassed. “I was actually sleep deprived before we started hanging out. The closer she got to me, the more I slept, the better I felt.” His eyebrows winged up. “Which… I guess… is not good?”

Derek took a sharp step forward, loosening one of his arms long enough to jab a finger down at the ground accusingly. “So she _is_ actually feeding off of him...”

“Hey, not much,” Stiles muttered defensively before wilting. Derek’s glare could have peeled paint off the wall.

“Yes, she is, and likely more now that she’s suffering. But it’s meant to be a _symbiotic_ relationship, not a predatory one,” Deaton explained. Derek didn’t look convinced. “Death omens are not malevolent creatures. They’re not around to cause death. They’re around to warn you about it so you can take measures to avoid it.” When Derek just stared back at him, expression stony, Deaton looked back at Stiles. “It would be very easy to befriend one, I bet. They’re so unaccustomed to people paying positive attention to them. After centuries of being misunderstood, they must crave it.”

“And she’s going to die for it.” After a beat, Stiles looked down at the floor. He reeked of misery and guilt. 

There was a long pause.

“What do you want to do, Stiles?” Scott asked softly, sympathetically. 

Stiles lifted a shoulder, speaking to his shoes. “Keep her tethered to me and she dies. Let her go and she goes and does her thing. Not much of a choice, is there.” After a beat, he lifted his head, eyes only for Deaton.

“How do I release her?” he asked hoarsely.

Deaton smiled briefly, but encouragingly. “A few weeks ago, you knocked one of my jars and breathed in a powder that opened you up psychically. We need to do that again.” He shot Scott a meaningful look and Scott, taking the hint, went into the other room to retrieve it.

Through the walls, he heard, “Will I ever see her again?”

“It’s unlikely. You’re not naturally psychically open. You’d have to be tethered to her again to see her and the likelihood of you accidentally tethering the same death omen to you twice in a lifetime is…” Deaton trailed off, seeming to understand that he wasn’t helping. 

When Scott returned, jar between his hands, Stiles’ jaw was tight and his expression was stony.

“You okay?” he asked, concerned.

Without looking up, Stiles nodded. “Give us a minute.” Creepily enough, his gaze dropped down to the left and down, clearly focusing on something no one else could see. He gave his invisible death omen a bleak little smile, one corner of his mouth hiking up higher than the other.

“I’ll get the materials ready,” Deaton said, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder for a moment. Stiles didn’t respond, already dropping to a crouch.

It took too long for Scott to figure out that ‘us’ didn’t include him, and by the time Scott left the room, it was too late to avoid Derek without it looking awkward.

They went into the lobby and stiffly sat down on some chairs. Time ticked away. Scott could hear Stiles’ voice, but didn’t bother focusing on what he was saying. He tapped his palms again his knees twice, glancing disinterestedly at the magazines on the table.

Scott could feel the pressure of Derek’s stare like it was a physical thing. 

Finally, unable to take much more of that, Scott met his gaze. “What?” he demanded.

“Why did you look so relieved?” The first question was softer, inquiring rather than demanding. The second was the exact opposite. “What do you know that I don’t?”

Scott opened his mouth and thought about Mr. Patel wasting away on that hospital bed. He thought about Dr. Winfield’s downward spiral and the protections he’d put in place for her—the small strides towards recovery she’d made since then. He thought about hotel rooms that reeked of fear and dryness and reptiles. He thought about bites that bloomed like bruises without any blood.

His mouth closed. 

Derek’s expression darkened. “Just thought I’d ask.” And then bitterly, like he couldn’t help it, he said, “It’s not like I’m someone who’s _always_ willing to help you.”

Scott looked away, biting the inside of his cheek and feeling guilty.

Whatever ritual Deaton ran Stiles through went by quickly and painlessly. Well, almost painlessly. When Scott went to the backroom to check on them, Stiles’ shoulders were slumped and he smelled like loss and grief. 

He had a hand over his eyes. “It’s better for her,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Scott said.

“She needed to go.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… not existing anymore is so worse than death. I mean, she wasn’t technically alive but, you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Scott said soothingly. After a beat, Stiles nodded jerkily. He smelled like salt.

Scott helped Stiles wrapped his head up in a blind fold. As he tied the knot, settling the fabric over Stiles’ eyes, Scott couldn’t help but flash back to the last time they were here. 

So many things had changed since then. It was the beginning of summer, rather than the end. It was night instead of day. They knew what they were doing—even had a blindfold this time. But the most telling difference was emotions involved. Stiles was somber instead of diffident, quiet instead of mildly amused.

That seemed like such a long time ago, didn’t it?

Frowning, Scott adjusted the folds, making sure Stiles couldn’t even see light. Scott was not taking any chances in him bonding to an even worse creature in his vulnerable, psychically open state.

Stiles sniffled, then breathed in deeply, nose tipped up. “What’s that smell?” His nose scrunched up under the blind fold. “God, it’s so strong.”

“You’re still psychically open, Stiles,” Deaton commented from where he was cleaning up his materials. “You’re likely sensing the presence of something. As you lack additional senses, it is being interpreted as scent.”

“Ugh.” Stiles covered his nose. “I’ve smelled it before when I was like this. I remember it.” Then, a bit plaintively, “You know, Lady never smelled like anything at all. Not even wet dog.”

“What do you smell right now?” Scott said, wanting to humor him.

Stiles made a face, turning to him blindly. “It’s like… dry and reptilian.”

Scott froze, alarmed. His and Deaton’s eyes met over Derek’s shoulder. After a beat, Scott let out a low, shaky breath before wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles tipped his head towards Scott trustingly. “What’s wrong, bro?” he asked softly.

All too aware of Derek’s accusing gaze, Scott tried to bluff his way out. “N-nothing, dude,” he lied, patting Stiles’ chest. 

Deaton stared at them both with a somber expression. “Be safe.”

If only they could. 

-

Without any warning, the front door swung open. Lydia tipped her head back from the side where she had been artfully examining a bush of blooming flowers. 

“You’re back,” Scott said obviously. He was leaning against the door frame, hair wet and curling slightly. His shirt was sticking to his skin still, as he clearly just got out of the shower. He seemed incredibly flustered to see her.

Excellent. 

“Yes,” Lydia said. She took a moment, gave him a once over because… well, why not. “Yes, I am.” 

There was a long awkward pause. 

When an invitation inside didn't immediately present itself, she fought very hard not to sneer. "Well? Can I come in?"

Scott jerked out of complacency and backed hastily out of her way, almost tripping over a rug. Lydia shifted her purse from her hand to her arm and walked through the entry way, looking around curiously. 

The McCall house was surprisingly big. She always assumed they were poor. She ran a finger over a table, collecting dust. Maybe they were, after all. It didn't look like they had a maid. She spun slowly, taking everything in, assessing their living situation, before turning to face Scott once more.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting..." He waved a hand at her. "You. Ever, actually."

"Really? You didn't think I would ever come over here?" Lydia looked around some more, intrigued by it all. 

The living room looked nothing like the sterile edges of her father's apartment, nor the evenly spaced structure and alleged “feng shui” of her mother's den. There were pictures everywhere and indents on the couch where real people actually sat down. There were rubber scuff marks on floor and a dent in the wall from where a door was flung open too energetically. The whole place smelled very faintly of lemon.

She liked it. It was homey.

Behind her, Scott snorted, though not unkindly. "Lydia, I've known you for years and, before this werewolf thing? I could barely get you to make eye contact."

Lydia winced at the truth at that and turned around, purposefully making eye contact. "Okay. Point," she allowed. "We weren't exactly in the same social circles. But we're friends now." And then, second guessing herself, she said softly, "Aren't we?"

"That depends on your definition of friend," Scott said wryly, but with a smile. "You still scare the hell out of me."

"Good." Hm. She rather liked that. She smoothed down her skirt, examining her shoes. "I define a friend as someone you can talk to, confide in, and share secrets with. I define a friend--a real friend--as someone who is _safe_." 

After a beat, Lydia looked up at him. Genius-level IQ or not, it had still taken her quite a while to settle on that definition. The first trimester of sixth grade had been rather… informative.

"Me too." 

"Then..." Lydia stalled. She tipped her head down, never breaking eye contact. Then, fully aware of her flaws, she asked again, "Aren't we friends?" 

Scott’s eyes widened slightly. He let himself fall into the couch. He looked surprised. Lydia didn’t like the vulnerable place that the question left her, but she let Scott see it. Her skin felt itchy with it, uncomfortable. 

This was not how she made friends. She reeled them in, usually in an amused, patronizing way. She set the mood, she defined the rules. _She_ was in charge. That was how these things worked. 

Then, this year, she had been dumped, lied to, poisoned, attacked, used, and betrayed. Obviously, her usual way of doing things wasn’t working. She wasn’t so set in her ways that she didn’t realize some things had to be changed. 

"Of course we're friends," Scott said gently, eyes kind.

Outwardly, she nodded sharply, as if such a label was her due and as if giddy warmth wasn’t spreading through her chest. The relief she felt was unbelievably staggering—and very slightly humiliating. 

"Good," she chirped. Then she slammed her purse between on the table between them. Scott looked alarmed again. She opened up her bag, looking at him through her lashes. "Now, as my friend, you're _not_ allowed to be mad at me."

Scott groaned, leaning back on the couch. "What did you do?"

Rude, but... okay, yes. 

"It's more like what I _didn't_ do," Lydia muttered under her breath. “I was supposed to… I knew I forgot something before I left, but I didn’t remember until I got home.” She pulled an envelope out of her purse. 

The name _Scott_ was written on the front in Allison’s sharp, practical handwriting.

Scott went completely still. His eyes flickered gold and, momentarily removed from the lost look on his face, she wondered if he could smell Allison on the envelope. Then reality crashed in on her and she found herself feeling some belated, guilt-tinged empathy. After all, it wasn’t like she didn’t know what it was like to love—and miss—Allison Argent.

Lydia steeled her spine. “It’s entirely possible I made myself forget I had this,” she said musingly, spinning the envelope between her fingers. “Especially considering how little I want you to have this letter right now.” 

Scott’s face was absolutely blank. He stood and reached out, leaning over the table with his palm up. ”Give that to me."

Lydia chewed on her lip before saying, firmly, "No."

"Lydia," he said, irritated, and swiped at it. She jerked it to the left, and then to the right when he tried again, then shoved it down the front of her shirt.

Clearly startled, Scott backed up a step and turned cherry red. She smirked at him. "Checkmate?"

"Are you just here to taunt me?" he accused, looking everywhere but at her.

Lydia tried not to take that personally. "No, I'm _trying_ to be your friend!" she said earnestly.

That got his attention, though it was paired with a dubious expression. "By playing keep-away with my letter?"

"No, by making sure you understand a few things before you go off into La La Allison-land and act like an absolute freaking moron." She let out a sigh, regretting that last part, but still thinking it needed to be said. "I just don't think your head is in the game."

Scott made a face at her. "What?"

Ugh. Maybe she should have started from the beginning. "Look, this last term was bad, and I really don't know the whole of it. All I know is what Allison told me. And what she told me was..."

"Bad?" Scott inserted flatly, one eyebrow raised.

"Don't be a smart ass," she chided him. “You’re not good at it.” He hung his head. "Allison… What she did, where her head is at... maybe she's bounced back from that a bit, but we can't _trust_ that.”

“Why not?” Scott argued. “She snapped out of it. And then she left to get some space, to clear her head. These are _good_ things, Lydia. Why are you acting like she’s getting worse instead of better?”

Oh god. He didn’t even know. Crap. Crap crap crap.

“Do you have any idea where she is right now?” Lydia didn’t give him space to respond. “She went to a _hunter training camp_!” Scott went still. “Maybe she left as the person we both love and care about, but goddamn it, Scott! She turned into homicidal wreck after a tiny bit of prodding from a man she’s detested since she was three.”

“Hey, her mom died,” Scott said heatedly.

“Not my point,” Lydia snapped. Looking at his face, the fierce loyalty shining out of his eyes, she gentled and tried again. “Look, she’s going to spend weeks and weeks bunking up with people who have made it their life’s mission to cut you in half. I love her, Scott. I really do, but we don’t know what kind of person is going to return to us.” She pulled the letter out of her shirt, smoothing it down on her leg. Quieter, she said, “All I’m trying to tell you is we don’t know if she’s going to come back as our friend or our enemy.” She looked back up at him with a serious frown. “And I _need_ you to understand that, especially if you’re going to be my alpha.”

Scott looked tired. He rubbed at his face. “I do understand that. I do. I just-” He froze. “Wait, what? Your _alpha_?” He looked dubious. “I know you’re not familiar with this werewolf stuff yet, but I’m an omega. Derek’s the alpha.”

Lydia cocked her hip to the side, fanning herself idly with the letter. “So? I heard you were Stiles and Allison’s alpha. I’m in. I want that.”

“But what about Derek? Derek’s your boyfriend’s alpha, you know.”

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Hm, no. Derek doesn’t exactly inspire my enthusiasm.” When he seemed offended on Derek’s behalf, Lydia just sighed heavily. “Look, Allison said you were the one to go with, okay? She said you were the one with heart and respect. She said you were the one who’d make sure everyone got out okay.” She thrust the letter at him, waiting for him to take it. “Was she wrong?”

No, she wasn’t. She rarely was. And maybe Scott didn’t believe in himself yet, but she’d make sure he understood his power soon enough.

She did ever so much hate it when people refused to reach their highest potential. 

\- 

Summer was almost over, but, for Stiles and Scott, it felt like it just barely started. To make up for lost time, they spent almost all of their days together—which wasn’t all that hard, considering the fact that Stilinskis were living at the McCall house at the moment. 

Stiles was surprised how much he needed that—how much he needed to live in Scott’s back pocket for a while. He missed Lady so much sometimes, but having Scott right there all the time helped soothed the sting a little. 

In the end, he had to face the facts. She wasn’t meant to be what he made her be. She wasn’t a dog. She wasn’t a person. She wasn’t even a living thing. But she was his friend and he’d needed her _desperately_ in his life at that moment. Maybe that was selfish of him, but he knew that, at the very least, he’d made the right decision to let her go. 

They’d said their goodbyes at the vet’s. He’d even told her the rundown, just in case she had more sentience than she let on. Then he gave her a hug—cold creepy crawlies and all. And after Deaton removed the tether that tied them together, he watched her rapidly recover, lifting her head and scenting the air like she could taste purpose in the air. And he was happy for her! Even though Deaton wouldn’t allow him to look at her longer or touch her or even say her name, he still knew that she was going to be okay.

And that was all he wanted for her, really. She was going to be alright. 

And if he felt lonely, well… he’d get over it. He’d dealt with people leaving him before, he could do it again.

But Scott never did let him feel lonely, never did let him feel abandoned, for which Stiles was eternally grateful for. 

But now Scott was out, wrapping up some stuff with his summer school, which left Stiles by himself and with only his thoughts. He had many thoughts—he was quite a thinker—but there was one thought in particular he needed to address. One specific thought he needed to stop avoiding. 

It was time to face the thought that had been hounding him all summer: Stiles. Wasn’t. Saved.

That was what he focused on earlier. But was that really even what was bothering him? Really? Honestly? He had to look at all the facts here.

Stiles had been at Chez Murder Family with Gerard for roughly ten minutes before he was booted out on the curb. It took him under twenty to hoof it back to his own house and, by the time his dad charged in the house and up the stairs to Stiles’ room, Stiles had been ‘missing’ for only about forty minutes. 

Forty minutes. That was all. And that whole night had been crazy, so Stiles knew he wasn’t the only problem that Scott had to deal with. And, thing is? Stiles had no doubt in his mind that Scott started looking for him. None at all. 

Scott not saving him at that time wasn’t an issue an issue of indifference or incompetence. No, it was an issue of time. Simply put, Stiles was found before he was saved.

While Stiles thought he was allowed to be angry that Scott didn’t save him fast enough, he really wasn’t. Kind, good hearted Scott, who ran like crazy through miles of woods to save Stiles from becoming charbroiled—no, Stiles would never blame that guy for not being punctual. 

That guy cared. That guy tried. That guy beat himself up when he failed.

No. No, the more he tried to pin down his reasons for why he was mad at Scott, the more those reasons seemed to disappear, proving to him that they hadn’t existed in the first place. The fact of the matter was _Stiles wasn’t mad at Scott_. In the end, this persistent sense of not being saved had nothing to do with Scott.

It had everything to do with Gerard. Fucking Gerard.

It was easier being mad at Scott because if he wasn’t, he’d be left thinking about Allison’s grandfather—where he was, what he was doing, who he was hurting. If Stiles was going to be next. 

Stiles chose misplaced anger over justified fear, and that was _cowardly_. The anger made him selfish and blinded him to what he needed to do. What he should have done that night instead of hiding in his room.

Stiles crept through the entrance of the sheriff station, already wincing. He didn’t recognize the woman at the front desk. She didn’t recognize him either, but smiled encouragingly when he hesitated to approach her.

“Do you need help?”

“Yes, I’d like to report a crime.” Stiles cleared his throat, nervous. He looked towards the back of his office, all too aware that his dad was there, obliviously handling his day-to-day work without any knowledge of what was to come.

That got the deputy’s full attention. “What kind of crime?”

“Assault on a minor.” Throat sticking, he swallowed before gesturing up at his face. “Me.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: OCs death (more info in end notes), brief graphic violence, imagery regarding canon character death.

Scott passed his class for summer school. So did Isaac. Every time Scott remembered blasting through that final test and shaking Mr. Harvey’s hand one last time, he grinned brightly. He didn’t just do good—he did _great_. A solid B+. His mom took him and Isaac out that night to celebrate. 

And what was there to do after that? Not much, it seemed. There wasn’t a whole lot of summer left. And although Scott tried to grab what little was left over and spend it wisely, the clock spun quickly, the seconds counting down to the end of summer—and the start of a new year.

Scott made sure not to forget Isaac, made sure to include him in all the activities he could—video games, the beach, sleepovers, and more. Isaac didn’t always say yes, but Scott always made sure to let him know he was welcome. That he had a place in this. 

All things aside, Scott really enjoyed getting to know Isaac this summer. He was perpetually dry and allegedly indifferent about everything that crossed their path, but, nevertheless, he was a good guy. A _great_ guy. 

Even Stiles looked at him sometimes with this unimpressed weight of memories, like that one time Scott tried eating glue out of the hot glue gun because he thought that was how cotton candy was made. 

But not Isaac. Isaac watched Scott like he was something new and hopeful. This scared Scott as much as it thrilled him, because it was like he could see his future, as a man and as a werewolf, being played out through Isaac’s pale blue eyes—and it was _good_.

Isaac didn’t always give Scott such reason to be so self-reflective and aware of himself, though. Mostly, they just hung out and played video games, like normal people, sometimes with each other, sometimes with each other and Stiles.

Stiles… wasn’t warming up to Isaac. Not yet. He was still weird around the guy, all puffed up like an irritable cat side eyeing the new puppy in the room. Isaac was eyeing him with the same level of wariness, just waiting for him to lash out and scratch. Scott didn’t think it would escalate into violence, but there was tension there. Tension he couldn’t ignore.

The last thing Scott wanted to do was to referee his two friends, but he did watch. He watched as Stiles was snippy with Isaac, tone a little harsher than his usual level of sarcasm. He watched as Isaac was just as quick to shoot back a biting remark. Mostly, he watched as they sat in silence with each other, occasionally breaking it to offer an olive branch, a hesitant attempt to start up a conversation.

It was a start. They didn’t like each other yet, but they would eventually. And that was all Scott could hope for. 

Stiles needed them as much as Isaac did nowadays. No one was happier than Sheriff Stilinski to see Stiles alive, but there was a rift growing between them, one that seemed to grow bigger and bigger after every strained conversation Scott couldn’t help but overhear. 

Too many things happened in too small of a timeframe—Matt, the kanima, Jackson’s kidnapping, the arsons. Too many suspicious things tied to Stiles. And now Gerard? Scott tried to pull some attention off of Stiles by encouraging the others to make their own statements—even Jackson submitted one—but that didn’t stop his best friend’s father from staring at his own son, like he didn’t know who he was looking at. 

And Stiles stared right back, seeing it, vulnerable to it, helpless against it, and yet still unwilling to shed a single secret that might better help his father understand the situation—that might better help the sheriff getting hurt.

So yeah. Stiles needed friends as much as anyone else. He needed safety and consistency just as much as Isaac did. He needed kindness and distractions as much as Scott. And Scott did not fail to deliver.

Once the issue with the arsons cleared up with Cody behind bars, lacrosse practice picked up again. Unlike Stiles, Scott had lost much of his zest for the game, but he still caught the last few practices of the summer and made sure to outperform the rest, if only out of loyalty to the team. 

Finstock usually had a thing about not awarding “cocky little upstarts” who wandered in last minute “without shedding the necessary blood, sweat, and brain cells” that came with constant practice, but Scott had the advantage of knowing the coach was a little desperate without Jackson.

Jackson, who showed no desire to rejoin the team, that is.

So, with his star player out of the game, Finstock’s principles took a backseat to his practicality. It didn’t take much to get both Isaac and Scott on the first line. Stiles also made first line to the surprise of no one but himself. 

First line or not, though, Finstock slapped applications for cross country at them all, commenting that any lacrosse hopeful had to join if they wanted in. Ignorantly or willfully ignoring the fact that it was something else entirely, Finstock ranted to any who would hear him about all the reasons why it should be considered a warm-up for lacrosse season. 

“It’s even in the name! La Cross Country! You can’t all _seriously_ be this dim.”

The real tryouts would come at the end of cross country. This made the new players and the bench warmers hope for a better performance and promotion to the first line after an extra term of training, and it made everyone on the first line panic, worried that their coveted place would be taken at anytime. 

Coach did this every year. Stiles was already chewing on his nails and making up color coding practice schedules for him and Scott.

“And Isaac too, I guess,” Stiles said begrudgingly. Isaac’s smile lit up the room like sunshine, but by the time Stiles looked up, squinting at him suspiciously, Isaac’s expression was aloof.

“I guess,” Isaac said ambivalently. Stiles scowled at him, eyebrows lowered. 

Scott didn’t say anything to that, fiddling with his sleeve. He felt… numb. He remembered being so fiery about the first line once. Had that only been a few months ago? Had it only really been a while ago that he walked out on the field with a burning awareness of Allison in mind and a confused wolf stretching its limbs under his skin?

He wasn’t excited anymore. Too much had happened since then. Too many people died. Too many people were hurt. Maybe he should take a page out of Jackson’s book and drop the team too. Between invisible monsters, alpha packs, and, now, possibly Allison too, Scott’s plate was full.

Poor Coach would probably burst into tears.

But, hey, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this term! After all, things were different now. Friendship had been tested. New friendships had been forged and with the most surprising people and _between_ the most surprising people.

If something happened, he wasn’t going to be alone in dealing with it. Not this time.

Scott let himself smile—first slowly, the expression tentative. Then wider as his confidence grew. 

Junior year was going to be better. He could just feel it.

-

There was a werewolf on the classroom table.

There was a werewolf on the classroom table, bound and black veined, eyes glassy and rolling.

There was a werewolf on the classroom table, and he didn’t remind Allison of a single person she knew. His floppy red hair didn’t remind her of Scott. His green-gold eyes didn’t remind her of Lydia. And the claws that flexed futilely in and out by his sides didn’t remind her of Isaac or Boyd or Erica at all. 

He opened his mouth, mumbling soundlessly, and black blood oozed out. Uncomfortable, she looked away, tightening her hands into fists.

There were ten other teenagers in the room with her. Boys outnumbered girls here, but not by much. Even after weeks of summer school, she only knew five names: Sophie LeHeureux, Floyd Marcus, Trent Connor, Miles Fortenbraugh, and Nat Yun.

She didn’t know the others by name yet, but knew that there was at least another twenty kids enrolled in course called ‘Advanced Career Preparation’, a long standing, distinguished program, open by invitation only and taught by rugged and suspicious looking people who taught no other class at the school. 

In reality, it was, for lack of a better title, Hunting 101. 

Overall, there were at least thirty hunters-in-training at this tiny little high school in Southern California, thirty other teenagers like her living and breathing and struggling in her shoes. Allison thought that would make her feel better than this, but there was still a werewolf on the table, oozing black blood.

And she had no idea what to do.

Mind blanking, she found herself staring at herself in the reflection of the giant television set up near the table. It was old and big, barely fitting on the rolling cart it perched on. In the dark glass, Allison’s eyes were huge and her face hollow.

“This it?” Miles muttered, unimpressed. She pulled her gaze away from the television to look at him, hugging herself. He had the complexion of a slightly old turnip. He pushed his glasses up his thin crooked nose. “This is our summer final?” 

“What are we supposed to do?” Nat muttered, square jaw tightening. She had chin length black hair and a permeant frown etched onto her face. 

“Kill it,” Sophie concluded with a little nod. She was pale, pointy, and beautiful in the way that shattered glass was. When no one stepped forward, she sneered, pulling a switchblade out of her sock. “We’re hunters. That’s what we do. We kill it.” 

A voice rose from the back of the room. “No, _we’re_ hunters.” The teenagers in the room collectively flinched, turning their attention to their teacher. 

Grant Monroe came to the front then. He was older, in his late fifties, and had short gray hair. He leaned on his cane, compensating for a limp, but moved quite well despite it. His voice had the ringing authority of a bell. 

“You, on the other hand,” he said lightly, “are students. Light on wisdom, heavy on stupidity.” After a beat, he looked meaningfully at Sophie, who flushed unattractively. “You know the rules about knives.” 

She made a face, struggling inwardly. Then, with a flip of her wrist, she closed her switchblade and slapped it into Grant’s open palm, stomping back to the group with a bad temper. Allison watched her warily, eyebrows rising. She couldn’t help but think of Lydia—not because of any similarities, of course. She wondered what it would be like if they actually met.

Lydia would _destroy_ her. And then Sophie would come after her with a knife, so maybe it was best Lydia was way up in Northern California. Safe. Or, at least, as safe as one could be with one foot in a wolf’s den.

Allison shook off the thought, attention catching on the second teacher weaving her way around the group of students. 

Keiko Monroe was in her thirties. She was slight and had a striking scar over her collarbone and neck. Once she reached the front, Keiko looked over at Grant with dark eyes, waiting for him. He tossed her the folded knife and leaned up against the table, rubbing his thigh. As different as they were, they were completely in sync. 

According to the school’s rumor mill, there was no relation between the two of them, blood or marriage. Just adoption. Keiko was one of many children adopted up by a hunting family after a disastrous tragedy. This was a common practice, especially when the hunters deemed the children unfit for normal society after an encounter with the supernatural.

“What comes before the righteous kill?” Keiko asked abruptly, pocketing the knife. She folded her arms behind her back and walked back and forth in front of them. All the while, she looked at them steadily, reminding Allison of a general pacing in front of her troops, disappointed with what she saw. Many of them straightened up unconsciously under her gaze, even Allison herself.

“Uh, capture?” Floyd guessed, hand half-raised. He was tall and gangly with a long face. He had the annoying tendency of leaping feet first into something, letting his rage and impulsivity guide him. Allison always winced inwardly when she was partnered with him on an assignment. 

“Before capture.”

Floyd pouted.

“Scouting!” Trent chirped. He was good looking, cheerful with that particular look to him any white boy with the tag “All American” had. 

Keiko didn’t even look at him. “Before scouting.”

Allison cleared her throat quietly before saying, “Proof.” 

Keiko paused her pacing, pivoting smoothly to face Allison completely. “Why.” All of a sudden, then weight of her immense focus on Allison and it was all she could do not to choke on her own tongue.

Allison took in a deep breath, then said quietly, “If you do not have proof, then you do not have reason. If you do not have reason, then you have animus. If you have animus, then you invite death—not only for yourself, but for everyone around you.”

There was an awkward pause. 

Then a rare smile pulled at Keiko’s lips. “Well put, Argent,” she allowed. She looked out over the group of teenagers again, expression hardening. “We are hunters. We are hunters and students of hunting. And, yet, believe it or not, werewolves are _not_ our natural enemy. Stupidity is our natural enemy. Selfishness. Impatience. _Retribution_.” She started pacing again. “The mottos of your families, clans, and alliances reflect this.”

“The fact of life,” Grant said mildly, “is that we cannot afford to play by Hammurabi’s code. An eye for an eye only leads to bloodshed and loss. Hunters number so few as is.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Traditionally, hunters trained themselves and each other within families and small groups. As hunters made more and more alliances, they discovered that this insulated teaching style lost more than it taught. For example, there were still clans and hunting parties out there that genuinely thought silver was ‘a wolf’s bane’. In reality, ‘silver’ was the name of the hunting family most associated with hunting down werewolves, and they used wolfsbane.

Lots of things got lost in translation, she supposed. 

Sometime back in the early twenties, though, hunters got together and started standardizing training and pooling together their knowledge. They distributed this collective information through the next generation under the guise of public schooling. 

Hunters used to have many schools under their influence, just for this purpose. In the United States, there were just three now where there used to be forty-seven.

Hunters were a dying breed, which was why the code was so important. It was just as much self-preservation as it was about morality and fairness. Arguably, in some circles, it was _more_ about self-preservation than anything else.

“Proof is necessary,” Keiko emphasized fiercely, gaze moving from student to student. “All your codes are different, but the one similarity between them is the absolutely mandatory _demand_ for proof.” 

Dubious, Allison raised her eyebrows at the floor. Code or not, she wasn’t sure Kate or Gerard cared about proof either way. 

Grant clapped the werewolf’s arm all of a sudden, making the man groan. Allison’s head shot up, her heart pounding as all of her focus zeroed in on the scene in front of her.

“And so here today,” Keiko said, raising a remote, “is your proof.”

She clicked a button and suddenly the television was awash with color and light. 

It was a home video, and it started with a close up of coppery curly hair tumbled around a heart shaped face. It was a girl, a child, a young one with the innocence that didn’t register the gaze of the camera. She fit her fist into her mouth, but she was smiling too, wide and shyly. She couldn’t have been more than five years old.

The operator of the camera had a deep, friendly voice. “Did you have a good birthday, sweetie?” 

“Yes, Steven,” she sang softly, distracted. 

“Yeah?” Allison could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “What did you like the best?”

“The cake.” Then, very softly and with her gaze off to the side, she mumbled, “The presents.”

Steven laughed indulgently and the little girl turned her face up to him, lighting up with affection and love. 

“Well, Mommy will be back in a few minutes after she’s dropped off Rachel. Why don’t we surprise her by cleaning up?”

The girl straightened up like a meercat, nodding very seriously like her Steven had handed down the holy mission she was waiting for her entire life. She looked left and right, copper curls bouncing around her face. Then, with a determined expression, she grabbed up a fistful of napkins and two plastic forks. She carried them very carefully to a trashcan, dropping them inside. After she did that, she looked up, grinning brightly. 

And Steven, who seemed like a very nice guy, gasped and made a big deal about thanking her, even though she hadn’t made a dent in the mess left over from the party—and there was quite a bit of a mess.

Allison found her mouth pulling slowly up into a smile, shoulders relaxing slightly—surely this couldn’t be all that-

There was suddenly knocking at the front door. 

Steven fumbled with the camera. “Oh crap. Er, crud. Baby girl, don’t tell your mother I said that.”

It was too late. The girl was already mouthing the word, shredding open the napkins like she forgot what they were just doing.

The frame spun wildly for a second, showing white walls, wide open windows letting in cheerful sunshine, streamers everywhere, and a couple of drooping balloons. Then Steven set down the camera on a blue and white counter. The focus settled on a large picturesque window that lead out to the backyard. Through it, they could see soft green grass and the edge of a sapphire blue play structure. Next to the window was a sliding glass door with tiny colorful children’s handprints set about two feet high.

“Don’t touch the video recorder, okay?” Steven said, sounding distracted. The knocking resumed, harsher now, demanding and angry. Steven sighed and his footsteps faded away.

Within a few seconds, the little girl’s head popped back in the frame. She stood as tall as possible, reaching for the lens of the camera with sticky fingers. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, but she was just barely too short to reach it. But, before she could do something enterprising, like hopping or using something as a step stool, she froze, gaze jerking up and to the left. Her little hand retreated, fingers curling inward, her face creasing into an upset frown as the arguing in the background got louder. 

“You really shouldn’t be here!” Steven was saying again, harsher with the repetition. The little girl shrank furtherer into herself. She was gripping the edge of the counter, watching whatever confrontation was going on behind the camera with large, sad eyes. “I’m serious, man. This isn’t your place anymore!”

There was a thump and the little girl turned a ghastly, petrified white. What came next was so garbled by a hair raising growl, Allison could hardly make sneeze of the words. “-my kid, my house, my family. _You’re the one who doesn’t fit_!” 

The little girl let out a short scream and ducked under the counter. A second later, a body was thrown through that large, pretty window, shattering it. In a flash, a wild red haired werewolf in beta form jumped after it, landing with a snarl and a grotesquely wet sound. 

The girl popped up again, face red and anguished. “Daddy, no!” she shrieked, racing to the sliding glass door. She struggled with the handle and jerked it open before stumbling outside. “Daddy!”

There was a long pause. Then there was a high, petrified scream.

The video came to an abrupt stop. Allison blinked rapidly at the frozen image, shaken, her heart racing. Grant had pushed pause with his cane. He looked around the room, eyes lingering on each student.

The room was so quiet, they could hear a pin drop. Allison’s ears were ringing and her face was hot, but she’d never felt so cold inside.

Seemingly satisfied with the silence, Grant spoke into it with the quiet authority of a pastor after a tragedy. “Werewolves are not stupid creatures. They are as smart as us—even smarter in many cases. They are quite capable of understanding, creating, and enforcing rules and moral standards.” He rested both hands on his cane in front of him. “Do you know what the best kind of alpha is?”

It seem like an abrupt tangent, hardly connected to the awful video they just watched. Allison could barely collect her thoughts, let alone answer a question.

“A dead one,” Floyd muttered, face red with fury. Most people avoided looking at him. It was common knowledge that his father had been killed by a werewolf in a similar way—without warning on a bright sunny day. 

Grant wasn’t most people. He stared Floyd down until the boy was looking at the floor. “The best kind of alpha is one that _keeps the peace_ ,” he corrected at length before turning his gaze across the rest of the assembled class. “Not only is this alpha the strongest alpha, this alpha is also your best friend. Your most coveted ally.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Allison saw Sophie making an exaggerated expression of disbelief. Next to her, Nat, with her straight short hair and her boxy face, was as expressionless as ever, but, if possible, she seemed even more expressionless than usual at Grant’s announcement. 

Bolstered by the discontentment slowly filtering in from his students, Grant continued on with his lecture, walking up to the side of the prone man on the table. “No, you see, werewolves? They understand rules as well as you or me. Werewolves operate under rules. Werewolves are socialized by the same cultures that socialized us.” 

He lifted a hand at Keiko. Wordlessly, Keiko handed Grant a knife—Sophie’s switchblade.

Not missing a beat, Grant continued, saying, “If you have proof, if you have reason, if you have a justified righteous kill, you might live. And if you let the packs know that you only punish rule violators, not only will they let you live, but they will also let you hunt.” Finally, he took his gaze off his students, looking down at the werewolf on the table before saying, “They will also let you kill.” 

Abruptly and without any warning, Grant flipped open the blade with expert ease and slammed it, hilt deep, in the werewolf’s chest. 

Allison instantly recoiled, the meaty hard thud echoing in her ears like the unforgettable snap of a bone. 

A knife in the heart. 

A knife in the heart is the way her mother went. Was that how she died? Writhing, gurgling, pinned like a bug, struggling against a sharp blade that just keep cutting and cutting and _cutting_ \- 

Allison came back to herself, cold and covered with sweat. The werewolf was dead. He laid there on the table still, almost peaceful.

And all Allison could think of was how her father wouldn’t let her see her mother’s body.

Unmoved, Grant wiped the blade off on the unknown man’s clothes. “Prepare a comment tying this lesson to something you’ve seen or experienced within your clan, family, or alliance.” He stepped forward and handed the blade back to Sophie, who looked like she never wanted anything less in her entire life.

And, like that, they were dismissed. Her classmates exited the room, mute and traumatized. Allison went with them for a moment, wanting to leave, wanting to flee. But then, at the last minute, Allison broke away from the group, turning back to face Grant. Once Grant, Keiko, and Allison were the only ones in the room, she closed the distance between them, taking back the steps she made before.

“Where did you get off, doing that to them?” She meant the words to come out harsh and demanding. Instead, they came out soft, disbelieving. Betrayed.

Focused as he was on the werewolf, Grant didn’t even look at her. “Don’t care for my methods?” Keiko rolled over a huge janitor trashcan, more or less ignoring their back and forth. “Or did you simply not listen to my lecture?”

“Oh, I got your lecture,” Allison said with renewed strength. That got his attention. Grant turned to her, eyebrows lifted. “I’m not so biased that I can’t see that some werewolves are okay. That they just want to be and go to school and binge watch a show on Netflix.”

Grant tipped his chin up slightly at that. Then, abruptly, he shoved the werewolf into the bin, like he was merely an awkwardly shaped bag of meaty trash. Keiko braced herself against the bin, shooting him an irritated look. Then she piled on the rest of the trash bags, hiding the body.

There was still black blood on the table when Grant leaned on it, rubbing his thigh. “Tell me more of your thoughts.” 

Allison fixated on the squeaky wheels of the bin as Keiko let herself out, dead body and cover well in place. She hated that they had procedures for this. She hated that they had such a stranglehold on this school that this was okay. And, mostly, she hated that, for all that rushed proof was supposed to operate like a trial, they never even got to learn the man’s name.

Allison turned her attention back to Grant. “I think you are pretty awful to kill a man in front of a group of teenagers,” she said, swallowing past a sore throat.

“They’ll see it sooner or later.”

“Is that- is that how you’re justifying it?” She looked away, blinking back heat in her eyes. “ _Wow._ ” The more hunters she met, the more she thought they were psychopaths dressed up like paladins. 

She wanted to just be frustrated and annoyed with it all, but it was more than that. It cut. She was adrift, floating along in life with no understanding of where she was going or where she’d been, no true concept of what was right or wrong anymore, and this _hurt_. Each path she walked turned out to be worse than the last.

She turned to leave, but a cane rose and blocked her way. “What did you think about what I said?” Grant asked, expression intense. “About righteous kills?”

“I think it’s reasonable,” she said woodenly. In a judge, jury, executioner way. 

“Why?” 

Allison blinked, trying to think beyond the rush of frustrated and betrayed feelings. “The whole… eye for an eye thing isn’t good for us.” She thought about Peter and shook her head. “Werewolves are way better at vengeance.”

“You think?” Grant crossed his arms over his thigh, leaning harder against the table. “Is that the only reason? Can you think of another?”

She stared at him for a long moment, at the way he seemed ready to nestle in and argue his way for hours. All while black blood congealed on the surface just behind him. 

“Get to your point,” Allison said coldly.

She’d went to a hunter school on purpose, with full knowledge of what was going to happen, but she hadn’t even been close to prepared. This place was beyond stressful. She’d woken up three days ago with a snake in her bed. She needed to disable traps to even get ready in the morning. Throughout the day, she was forced to defend herself against random attacks from random people—her teachers, her classmates, literal strangers. And that was just the warm-up to the actual lessons.

The lessons were _awful_. She broke some fingers on a wall. She’d cracked her head open on an obstacle course. She’d fired arrows from her bow until the string broke and her hands bled—and then she fired fifty more. She was strained and sleep deprived and _lonely_. She was not in the mood for riddles.

Grant’s flat, affable smile fell. He stood up straighter, tapping his cane down on the floor. “Derek Hale,” he said directly. “I’m presuming you’re familiar with him.”

Allison froze. Then, very softly, she said, “Yes, I’m very familiar with the man who killed my mother.”

Grant nodded, eyebrows knitting together. “Hm. Your continued aggression about that concerns me.”

“Concerns you,” Allison echoed with a hoarse laugh. “Really?”

“Allison,” Grant said very softly. “You are not like your classmates. When you leave here, you won’t be a grunt. You won’t be a soldier. You will be a _leader_. When you speak, others will listen.”

“So?” 

Grant leaned in closer to her. “You cannot afford to have these emotions, these desires. You cannot afford to voice them.” He lifted a finger. “Because if you voice them, someone will hear you and try to follow through on your desires just to please you.”

Uncomfortable with his intensity, Allison crossed her arms over her chest. “And what’s so wrong with that?”

“Werewolves are much better at avenging themselves than we are. You said so yourself.” Grant reached out, clasping her shoulder with his free hand. She tensed up slightly at the feel of it, resentful at the kind set of his mouth.

His general teaching style veered between apathy and antagonism. But, from the beginning, he always seemed a little more concerned for her, a little more invested in her studies than he was the rest. Probably because he was friends with her dad.

And now he was looking at her with that rare concern creasing the lines on his face and betraying his age. “You must learn to rise above such petty things because they will not hesitate to bring you and everyone around you down.”

A cold blooded murderer was preaching peace and forgiveness. Now she’d seen everything…

“Forgive and forget?” she said with a bitter twist of her lips. She looked away.

“No. _Never._ ” Grant’s hand tightened on her shoulder. Her attention snapped back to him. “Watch. Remember. Take notes. And when the time is right… _make the righteous kill_.”

There was a long pause where they stared at each other eye to eye. Then, chilled by the implications of that statement, Allison pulled back until his hand came off her shoulder. Coveted ally, my ass, she thought, but with no anger. Just trepidation. And not a little fear.

She left. Once out of the room, she walked the halls of the school at a fast clip, rubbing her hands fitfully. 

Allison wasn’t blind to the influence of this school. She wasn’t oblivious to what they were trying to do with the next batch of hunter hopefuls. She took everything they said with a grain of salt, remembering Beacon Hills and the brief brilliant moment she’d been part of a pack of three, protecting their future fourth.

But if there was one thing that this whole experience really hammered into place, it was her resolve, her base, bitter, _desperate_ need to make things right and just again. Allison pushed through the doors to the front of the school, jaw tight and set. 

By this time next year, whatever anyone else said? She was going to kill Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC deaths are unnamed werewolf and StepDaddy Steven. The girl is fine, relax. Imagery of canon character death refers to Victoria's suicide, as imagined by her daughter.
> 
> Sequels will follow. Not nearly done with this verse yet.


End file.
